Where I Stood
by NotAContrivance
Summary: There's more than one side to every story. Nothing, not even falling in love with your sister's boyfriend, is black and white... You know you're fighting a losing battle, but you can't stop because you can't do anything else.
1. I Could Be Dangerous

So I said I was never gonna write a sequel to At Last, and I guess that's only partly true, because here I am with this companion fic with time... difficulties. Like Ed and Casey get together way earlier in At Last than they do here, and I changed the time when he goes to school. But whatever. I guess it works better this way... Or not, actually. This fic... not so heavy on the dialogue. And I dunno, when it shows up, it feels awkward to me, but I guess this whole story has this kind of awkward vibe going, so maybe it fits... Um, and let's see, I owe some lines and inspiration to the song, "All Over You" by The Spill Canvas, "Spark" by Tori Amos, and "Where I Stood" by Missy Higgins, from whence the title comes. And some of the lines in this fic are the same as the ones in At Last, because there was some overlap, but as you'll see, there's a whole different point of view here and different emphasis, tones, interpretations and all that jazz.

Um, in terms of spoilers, Vacation with Derek is briefly mentioned but not really specifically. Just extremely general things like the grandmother and it being a camp, none of the plot stuff, since I still haven't seen it and really don't want to have to bother integrating that into the story. And it's kind of AU in that Derek and Casey don't go to Queens, though Liz and Ed do, because the original story was written before the writers made that decision, obviously. But everything that happened on the show happened here, basically. So, if you want a few more details about the world in which this story is set, I recommend reading At Last, although keep in mind that in matters of timing, they are a bit different and conflicting.

Let's see... I don't own the characters or, for that matter, most of their situations. I do, however, own the plot.

Also, originally, this was meant to be a one-shot, like the original. And in some respects, most respects, really, it is. But I decided to divide it up because it's got to be like, twice as long as the original. And I wanted to make it easier on you guys to read, I guess. Since people complained about it the last time. But it is a one-shot, meant to be read whole, in its entirety, in one sitting. None of this waiting business. That being said, I do suppose it can be read in segments, but just consider yourselves fortunate that I divided it up. ;)

This story, when I started writing it, well, it was meant to be completely different than it turned out, and so many little things about it are. But it's, really, it's kind of the product of a year of my life, a year of, well, lots of stress and maybe some turmoil, and me growing up, and that moment in your life right before everything's changing, something I worked on in the early mornings between other stories and kind of with Strange Attractors in the back of my mind, so some of that influence has filtered in... something that got me through those weeks when I was sexiled at three in the morning and living with my roommate and her boyfriend for a month, and I thought I was just going to go insane because I was so alone and so... left out... like I was an island and, I dunno, it hurt, more than I realized at the time... and so it's darker than I thought, and heavier than I thought, and somehow more... personal than I thought. Which is odd, really, 'cause mostly my life is nothing like Lizzie's in the story, but it wound up being all her story. And, I mean, this story, parts of it sort of sustained me, kind of how writing the first one really helped me work through some things. So it means a lot to me, and finally publishing it feels kind of like coming full circle.

So I would really appreciate reviews and anything you may have to say. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

It's never been easy for you. Things don't fall into your lap like they do for Casey (despite Derek's best efforts), and you've never been anyone's dream girl. You're sort-of pretty, you guess. You're athletic, coordinated in ways Casey will never be, intelligent (but not quite as smart as Casey or Edwin, and not half as wise to the world as Derek), well-liked, nice when you want to be, agreeable, and fun to be around. And what you lack you make up for in other areas, but that doesn't change the glaring fact that you've always been that tomboy, that ugly duckling, in the shadows, easily overlooked and easily forgotten. You like to joke and say that you're an acquired taste, but you've said it one too many times and now it tastes like iron in your mouth. Sometimes you really hate always being the friend.

In high school, there had been boys, but for some unknown reason, they all tired of you before much of anything could happen. You'd had plenty of male friends, but Jamie was one of the few who ever dared to ask you out. When you ask your girlfriends why this always happens, they say that you're too intimidating. They mean that _you're too competitive, too much, entirely in a league of your own_. Casey tells you you're a strong woman, stronger than her, even, and this scares guys. You read between the lines and hear her _really_ saying that _you're too intense_. Sometimes you think she's right about you, but the rest of the time you just wish you were more like _her, _just weak and flawed enough to attract men like flies. You've always stood up for what you believe in; you never, **ever** back down, and, more than anything, you're a fighter first and foremost.

You feel like you've been struggling your whole life. When you were little, you fought to keep your family together. When that didn't work, you fought the inevitable forces of change with every breath in you. Sometimes you think you still haven't stopped fighting change. Then, when you moved in with the Venturis and knew in your bones that your life had changed forever and that there was nothing you could do about it, you fought against the Venturis, fought for your family and your sister. As time passed, you and Edwin fought for scarce attention, and then you teamed up to fight against the yoke of your older brother and sister (you've been waging a war against Casey and everything she is ever since, and you don't know _why_). As a teenager, you fought for your freedom, your rights to have your own life. You speak up for those who cannot speak and defend those who cannot fight: the environment, the animals, the world. In sports, you fight the pain; you wage war on your body, ignoring every screaming, gasping muscle to achieve your ends. And there's a certain gritty satisfaction in it, because that is one war you _know_ you can win.

You only win a couple fights, usually minor victories that mean so little to you. But the struggle is endless, interminable, and painful when it feels like you're. always. losing. Even when you lose, though, you don't stop fighting. You just move on to the next battle and keep charging forward, and sometimes you think that that is maybe a curse. After all, it's not in your nature to give up, even when you probably should.

Then, one day, when you're so caught up in waging a million other tiny battles at once, trying to hold back the tide of inevitability (because that is the very nature of change), pushing and pulling and screaming and clawing at your enemies, something even more insidious creeps up on you. **Edwin**, and you know it sounds like a bad joke, but that's the truth.

You've grown apart a bit, and you're not as close as you used to be. You're still close friends, of course, but it isn't the way it used to be. You don't know why, don't want to think that this one pure, dependable thing in your life is changing, but it _has_, and it's too late. Maybe it's because you're both growing up, and it feels like now you two have nothing in common anymore. Maybe it's because things have changed without Derek and Casey in your lives on an everyday basis, or maybe things changed when Liam was born. You don't know _how_ it got this way, only that it is. You have your life, and he has his; sometimes they intersect, but a level of intimacy, of friendship, has been stripped away. You can't get that back.

It takes a while before much of anything happens. There you are, practically estranged, as you've been since the first few months of high school, and the final year, things change. He'd started looking at you differently a while ago; you can't put your finger on it, but you sense the slow change nonetheless. At first you don't know what to make of it, so you _don't _make anything of it, don't even waste the thoughts on it. But something changes that summer of your last year of high school, and he who was once so scarce is now completely unavoidable.

Odder still, you found that you didn't mind this so much. You didn't quite know what it was he wanted or why, but you know he wants something from you. You can read it in his dark eyes, in the cocky curve of his lips, so like his brother's. It's only at times like this, when he looks at you in this indecipherable way, manipulation and a kind of hunger in his eyes, that you remember he's Derek's brother. It's the end of an era, and Edwin's graduating early because he can't wait to get out of here. High school for him wasn't what it was for you. Maybe it's nostalgia, maybe he knows he's going to miss this, and he's trying to take advantage of the time he has left.

He gives you looks like he appreciates you maybe a little too much, and he jumps through hoops to stay in your good graces. He says things now that make you blush in spite of yourself. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was flirting with you. Worse still, it begins to dawn on you that you just might be flirting back. And clearly something must be wrong with you because you don't mind that at all, and, for God's sake, it's _Edwin_! As much as you'd like to be horrified, you're not.

There's a new kind of tension in your interactions now. It's visceral, like you're circling each other with watchful, suspicious eyes. There's friction now where there wasn't any before, when you were younger. You two aren't bickering like siblings or arguing like people who live together anymore. You can't quite put your finger on it, can't properly recognize it or give it a name, but it's a new, itchy feeling, like there's something under your skin that you can't scratch. There's a feeling like you're working towards something together, and every day the tension builds just a little more until you could cut it with a spatula.

You don't realize how your lives begin to slowly intertwine or just how close you've been growing, like weeds. Every day ends with you two closer and closer and closer still... And then you lose track, and it bleeds into something else entirely. He leans over and kisses you one night on the couch when you're watching a movie. You don't fight it, not even a little. The way he does it, as if it comes naturally to him, as if there's nothing even remotely unusual about kissing his stepsister, surprises you and puts you at ease. But you're not really _that_ surprised because you finally understand what that feeling in your stomach is, and a part of you knew this was going to happen at some point.

Things are changing, and you normally hate that, but this doesn't feel like change. It's a natural progression, so much so that it feels like an extension of what you already have and not at all like you're crossing a line. You know because there's a settling in your stomach, and it says to you that _this is fate, this is meant to be_. That should be an alarming feeling, and yet it isn't.

What you don't know, what you have yet to learn, is how deep you're in it already.

You don't talk about the kiss. Or the ones that follow it. They just kind of _happen_ at random moments when you're alone, but they're stolen moments. Edwin has dates, flavors of the week, but so do you. None of them last long. Still, it bothers you to see them together, makes you a little bit queasy the way he acts like nothing's really changed when the both of you know better. You know you don't have the right because, well, what are you to him anyway?

You don't ask him what _this_ is. Maybe you don't want to know. Maybe you don't want to jinx this. Maybe you're a little afraid of the answer. Maybe you should have asked him.

Things escalate a little further because he likes to push the envelope a bit, and Mom and Dad are busy worrying about their eldest and Marti's imminent adolescence. They're too busy focusing on paying bills and trying to accept that soon you'll both be gone that they rarely see the difference in your interactions. Then again, they're around so little that they rarely see you interact, period. For you, that's convenient. He pulls you into the Games Closet, which is dusty and a little sad, utterly neglected but completely private. No one bothers you there, and you let him feel you up. You're starting to think you enjoy this just a little too much.

This thing, whatever it is, it makes you do things you don't normally do. The lies, they fall off your lips so easily. You weren't a good liar before, either. You say whatever you can think of to get rid of potential suitors when he so much as looks at you because you **know** what that look means (_make-out session in the janitor's closet_, he's thinking, because you two have always had this _thing_ about closets). You don't know, don't care what you are to him, and you don't feel dirty or guilty about it, but you're not a cheater. Once that's done, you follow him to the closet kind of like a lost puppy, and you don't regret any of it. You lie to teachers and parents about where you are and why you're late, why you've missed class, why you're flushed and flustered (and happy, strangely, terribly, ridiculously _happy_), and it's all so easy.

You have to hide like scared children in the dark. A part of you almost resents that, but it's habit to you now. You and Edwin always snuck around together before, spying on everyone else, and it feels kind of like old times. If you're being honest with yourself, you kind of like it, having a dirty little secret like this. So you duck into closets and dark spaces where no one can see you, like old classrooms and bedrooms and bathrooms at parties and tiny corners and the living room, where you can do almost anything as long as the lights are out and no one can see your hands moving underneath the blanket. No one suspects anything just as long as you're watching a movie.

You're almost nocturnal now because you come alive most at night. That's when you see him. You feel as if you're using up borrowed time, and you just know that the hourglass is going to run out of sand some time soon. You don't know when, though, but you crave more time. You don't get near enough time with him, just slivers here and there, the bit of downtime at home you're afforded when you don't have practice before Marti gets home and a couple hours at night if neither one of you is sleeping or busy. You're afraid of wanting more, but you do, no matter how hard you try and convince yourself you don't.

You don't really get why he does it, and you don't question why you do. All you know is that it feels good; it feels _right_, and he's paying attention to you. He knows the real you, has seen you at your best and your worst, and you don't have to pretend with him. There's a certain appeal to that. You know that it can't, _won't_ last and that you'll probably end up ruining a great friendship because of this, but you don't really think that matters because you two will have to say goodbye eventually in the coming months, and you'd rather do it this way than wonder. Besides, you might as well go out with a bang (but you're not sure about doing _that_).

You're pretty sure you can handle it. It's just Edwin, after all. It won't end messy, you tell yourself, because the two of you just aren't like that. It's nothing serious, and it's not... love or commitment or a real relationship. But it's not really a friends with benefits thing, now is it? Whatever. Anyway, it's not like you're in love with him or anything. So it continues.

Every time you're alone together, you let things go a little bit further. You never really intend for that to happen, but when you're with him, you lose your head a little bit. When his lips are on yours, it feels so good that your body melts a little, and you're too lazy, too lost up in the ecstasy of it to say no to anything or to even want to say no. His hands slip up your shirt, fingers tracing patterns on your back. His hands trail around and rest on your stomach, firm and full of promise.

His hands smoothing down the slopes of your legs, leaning over you, hand holding your leg up by the crook of your knee. His lips, soft and moist, on your jaw, your chin, your cheekbones, your temples, your forehead, your throat, your neck, your cleavage, your collarbone, behind your ear. Your eyes practically rolling back in your head, and all you remember are the feelings, the pink light of your eyelids, and pulling him as close to you as possible, desperate for more.

You don't sleep with him, though, except the night before he leaves. Strangely enough, you're feeling terribly attached to him and wistful, wishing, almost hoping he doesn't have to go away tomorrow. You need something tangible to know that he's still here. You don't want to let go of him, even when he says he has to get up. You cling to him, digging your fingers in, stubbornly refusing to let him go. "Please, Ed... Stay," you rasp, pleading, not knowing whether you're asking him to stay here for the night, here with you, or if you're asking him to stay indefinitely. It makes you sound needy, pathetic, and desperate, and that's not you. You don't _need _Edwin. You just don't. Nevertheless, you're stronger than he is, stronger than his weak will, and you win that battle.

But by winning that battle, you've already started to lose the war, only you won't realize that for months.

So he sighs and says, resigned, "But only until you fall asleep... you know how it'll look in the morning..." Here he trails off, warning glaring in his tone. You get what he means by that, but you don't really know how this will all look in the morning. Nothing can prepare you for that ultimate finality, of the necessity that is his departure. You have no idea how much you'll miss him.

Then you curl your body around his, and there's no way that anyone who walked in that room and saw you two lying there wouldn't believe that you two are having a sexual relationship. But you don't have sex with him because that'd be too much like a final goodbye, like he was going away and you'd never see him again, like you were dying or he was going off to war or something. And none of that is true because it's not adieu or even goodbye, and he'll only be two and a half hours away at college, and he'll be back for break, you think, and you're not dying.

Heaven knows you could've had sex with him. It would've been easy enough, and it wasn't like you weren't horny and didn't want him. He wouldn't object either, but his morals aren't as strong as yours. But you can't forget so long ago that that was where you'd drawn the line. And you don't want to lose your goddamn virginity to your stepbrother. Much less as a result of a tawdry affair you can't even admit to. Because there are some things in this world that matter to you, and sex is one of them. You don't want to have sex with someone you don't love. You want it to be _special_, and nothing, **nothing**, is special about losing it to a brother figure, a family member, in your room with the lights off and on sheets you haven't washed in a month and nothing to hear but the pipes and heating and maybe faint snores from Derek's bedroom across the hall. You trust Edwin, yes, more than you've ever trusted any man (because your father breaks promises just as often as he keeps them and George is unreliable at best), but it's not about that. You want-no, _deserve_, the whole damn thing.

In lieu of that, you take his hand and guide it under your shorts and up your thigh. It's not the first time for that, but it is the first time you let him hook his fingers under the seam and touch your bare skin. Neither of you says much after that. He lets his fingers do all the talking, and your gasps and quiet moans say things you never could. But it doesn't exactly work the way you think it will, and even though you've done this thing... you don't feel the way afterwards that you wanted to, not that you even know what that feeling would be. All you know is this _isn't _it, and you feel ill at ease and somehow not right about this whole thing. You don't sleep for a long time. Edwin falls asleep soon enough, arm draped over your hip. You can't, though, so you pull the blankets up for privacy and stare at him for a long, long time because you're kind of afraid you'll forget what he looks like.

You watch his chest rise and fall with every breath, see his muscles relax as he drifts off to sleep, marvel at how his face looks (marbled, peaceful) in the light filtering in through your window, and then you intertwine your fingers with the hand in between the two of you. For whatever reason, and you know just how ridiculous this is, you want to be even closer to him. That would be practically impossible and uncomfortable for the both of you, so you resist the stupid impulse. You put your other hand on his heart instead, even though you can barely feel it thump through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. So then you slide your hand up under the hem of his shirt, resting on his bare skin, and you feel his heart beating against your palm. It's a reassuring feeling, that very feeling you were looking for.

The next morning, you wake up cold and alone in your bed, the sheets bunched around your waist. He's gone. He left early, early that morning and didn't even bother to say goodbye. At first, it's like last night didn't even happen, and you feel like you imagined it all. Because, you tell yourself, if all of that had really happened last night, it wouldn't be so damn easy for him to leave. It doesn't make sense to you, because if that happened, how could he just leave like that, like he didn't even owe you anything? Did he even look back?

It feels like you're going crazy, and he's _**so**_ not worth it. You gaze over at the slightly rumpled sheets on his side of the bed; it's almost like he was never even here, only if you try hard enough, you can kind of almost smell him on your pillow. And, damn, this is harder than you thought it would be, and you haven't been this angry with him for months and months and months. So you throw his damn pillow, if indeed you didn't dream last night up, across the room and barely repress the desire to scream. But the minute after you do it, you want the pillow back.

The only other thing that convinces you that he was there last night is the fact that your underwear's not quite in the right place and you feel kind of... dirty. By the time you woke up, he and Casey are probably already there and moving things into his dorm. And that burns you a little.

But, damn it, you're not supposed to miss him.

- Loren ;*


	2. Over You

So, everything said at the beginning of the last chapter still applies. I do not own any of the characters depicted within, but I own the plot and all that (and, for the record, I have always really thought disclaimers were stupid. Because obviously it's a fanfiction website, so the assumption is that you do not own the work about which you are writing. Saying that you do not own it is then superfluous... But some creators/authors get touchy about that crap, so whatever). Also, for the record, I don't want people to think this is just an Edwin and Lizzie story, either, because it's not. Because a lot of times people write it off if it's not strictly a Dasey, and I really don't like that because it has no bearing on the plot or quality of the work... It's about Lizzie and Edwin and Casey and Derek. And so much more than that, and reducing it to the central pairing is ignoring so many other crucial elements.

* * *

You see it coming before it happens, but you wish you didn't. Edwin and Casey have never been close, but now they really have no other choice than to cling to each other. You expect this from Casey because she misses her family, and Edwin's all she's got now. Edwin's a second-semester student, so he has few friends in Toronto. It'd be very different if Derek was there, but he isn't. He's still in London, still working at Smelly Nelly's, still Big Man on Campus, still playing hockey... but no longer a pain in Casey's ass. He had less options than Casey because his hockey scholarship isn't much, and colleges don't care about how Derek is the literal center of the community. Derek's not completely content by far, but he's not particularly unhappy. You envy Derek's remarkable ability to accept the hand in life he's been dealt, no matter what, and to exceed everyone's expectations by making something of it, of _himself_. You wish you could do the same, but you don't quite have his luck.

As the weeks go by, Casey mentions Edwin more and more in your frequent telephone conversations, and it makes you nervous. She laughs and tells stories about the silly things he does, and there's this feeling in your side like a sharp cramp that won't go away. You don't talk to Edwin, don't really see him either, even for break. They're even in a few classes together, she says, and you're still in high school and feeling so inadequate. Because you will never quite measure up to Casey, no matter what you do, even if you become a gold medalist, and these last few months haven't been the same without your partner in crime. Edwin not being here kind of cheapens this achievement for you, and sometimes you wish you'd followed in his footsteps and cut out early.

When the two of them come back home for March Break, they've got all these inside jokes and stories you can't relate to. It makes you and Derek uncomfortable, but even his best attempts can't lessen the feeling that you're missing out. When you see Edwin again, you kind of expect things to pick up where they left off. You wait for him in the Games Closet, in those same dark corners, in your bedroom too, but your waiting is in vain. He doesn't show, and he doesn't really talk to you much at all. It feels like you've done something wrong, like maybe he's ashamed, so you stay away too.

It's pretty damn obvious his interests have shifted elsewhere, so you try to stop thinking about him like you catch yourself doing sometimes. You stop looking at him for more than a few moments. You try to forget he ever touched you, but by trying to forget, you remember all the better. That's when you start to really worry, too; because he laughs a little longer at Casey's stupid jokes and looks at her sometimes when he thinks no one's watching. You start to think that maybe he wants her, but you tell yourself you _must_ be crazy because the mere idea of Edwin and Casey is utterly preposterous. Besides, you know Casey will never go for it, will never want him back because he's her _stepbrother_, and she has stronger moral codes than you do. She thinks of him as just another annoying brother.

Only you should've known better, because since when had Derek been _just_ an annoying brother to her? It's easier to see it start in Edwin because he wears his heart on his sleeve. You remember what it was like for you, the way he just closed in and crept up on you, and how you gave in so effortlessly. Oh, and you could read him, but you never knew what he was thinking or what he was feeling. You remember, too, how he made it feel like a natural extension of your relationship, how he let you think you were in control. You're smart enough now to know you weren't, jaded enough to feel manipulated into it. He works so subtly that you don't expect to see it from him again, don't see it coming until it's too damn late to stop the progress. When it does, you feel manipulated and betrayed, and you hate it because there's not even anything there yet, just a suspicion.

It's both awkward and painful for you to visit from the very start because there's something sizzling between you and Edwin, something that was never quite resolved. As time goes by, you begin to think that it won't ever be fully resolved and you might as well get used to it. At first you look at him a lot, searching hopelessly for the tiniest hint, the smallest sign of _something_ in his eyes. But his eyes are dark, empty, and forbidding, and you'll never see into them the way you did before. It's as if that _thing_ between you never happened at all, and there's always been this great black chasm between you. You never say that you miss him because it's a sign of weakness, a sign that you feel too much, but you know you do. You have no right to miss what wasn't yours to begin with. You try and maintain levity by making lots of witty comments and lame jokes and fake laughs and false smiles, but it's no good.

It's harder and harder for you to watch them together every time you visit. You get on the train to Toronto and dread it a little bit more every time. Sometimes you'd rather the train crashed than sit there and watch them falling in... you can't say it because that'll make it real. And it _is_ **real**, you know that, because Edwin looks different around Casey. You've never seen him this confident, this secure, this content, this fully himself (and you remember someone once writing that a man is never more fully himself than when he is in love), and you can't help but think that maybe he's so happy because he's away from you.

At that point, he just has a crush on Casey, but you know it will become more. The idea of a t-h-e-m becomes less and less preposterous and harder and harder for you to write off because, after all, she's his type, and you, of _all_ people, would know. He's much more persuasive than anyone ever gives him credit for, and he learned from Derek long ago how to get what he wants. You watch him start to work her, watch her not realize what he's doing, just like you didn't realize.

He starts flirting with her and insinuating things he shouldn't in front of you, and as time goes by, Casey stops writing it off as a joke. She starts blushing and giggling, kind of like she likes him, _really_ likes him, for more than just the flattery. He's getting older, too, more like someone she might actually date, and she's starting to see him with different eyes. They start to touch more and let go of each other a little too late. You read the signs that you know just as well as the back of your hand, and you can feel it beginning. You've been there too, after all. You know all his tricks, and the whole thing just makes you sick because he's moving on to your sister... and it's just _wrong._

Not just because she's your **sister**, and he's your stepbrother, and there's a significant age difference, but also because... you thought you were _special_. You're really not very special then at all, because he forgot about you the minute he set foot in Toronto and upgraded to your big sister. You were just practice for the big time, just the opening act, the junior model, a diluted sample of the real thing. He never even looked back at you, and here you are, months later, still whining, still confused, embarrassingly fixated, practically hung up on him! The whole affair just makes you so mad, but it's a big deal, and it's just terrible! It's the last position you want to be in, but you don't have a damn choice.

It makes no sense to you at first, the idea of them together, but this is Edwin, after all, so you don't expect it to. _They have things in common_, you think, both smart, both good dancers, both having to put up with Derek, both going to the same school in the same town. For you, though, that's not enough, not enough to base a relationship on. Sure, Casey's gorgeous, and obviously Edwin's attractive or else you never would've gotten involved with him. Still, Casey's not ruled by her hormones, and it's not like they live together in the same house.

Still, those arguments are worn and old, and it's a whole new world. The more you say them, the less you believe them, but you'd rather cling to that last little bit of hope than face the awful truth.

When the damn thing you've dreaded for the better part of a year finally happens, you're the first one they tell. Casey calls you up, freaking out as usual, in that flustered, fluttery tone of voice that means it's about a boy. Her voice is high and strained and breaks accidentally here and there, a sign that she's truly worried. She doesn't say who it is, caught up in a flurry of words that are barely intelligible. When Casey calls you, she's hyperventilating and overanalyzing, and she's yapping in your ear so fast you can't keep up. You don't think it's him until she slows down enough for you to understand a couple words. "I... it's completely out of nowhere! I can't believe it, you know... Edwin _kissed_ me, for God's sake! Who the hell kisses their stepsister?" And then it sinks in and realization crashes over you like a tsunami.

He's really gone and done it now, literally, and you know, you **know**, that that chapter of your life _has_ to be closed, possibly forever. It's your own fault, really. You should've shut the book a long, long time ago and stopped staring at pages you've already read one too many times. It's not like anything that happened back then is going to change, not like you could change it if you wanted to, not like the future is going to change. You should be able to start over.

So you bite your tongue so that you don't say what you really want to, something nasty like, "Well, Casey, _Edwin_ does (because, fundamentally, that's the difference between him and his brother, isn't it?). And you're not the first, either." Instead you play the supportive sister, trying to talk her down. You get her to breathe into a paper bag, get her to stop and think it over, try and help her figure things out. And, as much as you don't want to, as much as it hurts, you press her for details about the kiss because you're sick and you need to hear it for your own damn good. More than anything, it's your perverse curiosity that makes you ask, just because you want to know if it was any different with her.

You and Casey are very different women, so you don't know whether you should be insulted or flattered that you reacted in such different ways. This is the way Casey tells it: They're hanging out in her dorm room alone in the middle of the day. She's caught up in talking about something artistic like this play she's in or something she's reading for one of her classes. Edwin's listening, but he isn't paying attention (not that Casey notices). When she sees the glassy look in his eyes, she moves forward, waving to try and get his attention. Edwin snaps to attention, hand closing around her wrist firmly, and half-thrusts himself towards her/half-pulls her towards him. His lips crash against hers, not natural, jarring, maybe even, but passionate, romantic. And it's all over in three seconds. Because Casey, damn her ungrateful, lucky eyes, pulls back horrified and runs the hell away, unable to deal with it.

It's so freaking typical you're not even surprised. You saw Edwin moving in, of course, but you didn't think he had the balls to pull a move on her this fast, less than a week after his birthday. You don't want to think about him making a move on your sister, though. You don't want to ask her about what it was like. You don't want to ask her how she felt when he kissed her. You don't ask her if she thinks he's a good kisser (and, anyway, you already know that he is). You don't want to ask her what he said to her. You don't ask what the look in his eyes meant. You don't want to ask her if she has feelings for him, maybe. You don't dare to ask her if she liked it, and you don't ask her how he feels. There are some things you don't want to know, but you can't stop wondering nonetheless.

What you really can't stop thinking about is just how opposite your reactions are. The story you try and tell yourself you've forgotten entirely comes back to you all too easily. This is the way you tell it: The two of you are sitting on the couch watching some dumb movie at night. Everyone else is home except Derek, and most of the family's still up. Someone could walk in at any moment. You're not talking, actually, but you're watching the movie when Edwin leans over and, to distract you, grabs your face and presses his lips against yours, soft, tender, natural, and almost platonic but not quite. The kiss goes on and on until neither of you can breathe, and then you separate unwillingly. Even so, you forget the movie and go on kissing him all night because you kind of feel at that moment like it's what you've been put on the earth to do.

You've always been more accepting of change than she has, and maybe that's it. Change always seems to blindsight Casey, and you had the fortune of seeing Edwin coming. That's why you didn't freak out or turn and run like she did. You stayed and went along with it and liked it because you knew. Then again, maybe, just maybe, Casey flipped because Edwin's not really who she wants. Your reaction, your all-too-easy acquiescence, makes you feel weak, trusting, and cheap. No wonder Edwin wants your sister; she's the challenge and you're just... easy. He's already got all he can get from you, so why bother trying for more?

You wish you could convince Casey to not go after him because you know that's what she wants you to say, what she expects you to say, but you just can't do it. It's what you should do for the sake of your mental and emotional health, and yet, you can't bring yourself to do it. You could tell her that this same thing happened to you (it's kind of like he's a plague or unfortunate occurrence, really, instead of just a _boy_), and you know it'd be enough to stop her dead in her tracks, but for whatever reason, you can't bring yourself to tell her. You don't want anyone else to be miserable on your watch, and you love the both of them and want them to be happy, even if it kills you. You tell her she'd be stupid not to pursue it, and that you think Edwin could be good for her (you _really _do, as much as you hate to admit it). You know you would were you in her shoes (only you're **not**, and you never will be again). You also know that, no matter what Casey says, she's got feelings for him.

When you don't play along with her game, Casey freaks out on you. She's never known what to do when things don't go according to plan. Casey rants and rages against him, against you, maybe even against herself. She's angry but not furious (and not at you or herself or even Edwin... just... the _situation_!) and flustered because she didn't expect you to call her on this. Her breaths are uneven, a bit sharp, and you don't doubt she's blushing over the phone. Her words, blisteringly fast words that burst out and blur together until they become a kind of word soup you couldn't decipher, even if you tried. She protests entirely too much; Casey doesn't get that worked up for _just_ anyone (but, still, there's a niggling voice in the back of your head that knows the _one_ person who could push her farther into madness).

Edwin says more with his silence than he does with his words. He doesn't call to tell you about it, as he might have in the past. Maybe he doesn't want you to know, and maybe he's even deludedly trying to look out for your feelings but that means he thinks a lot of himself. Besides, if he was really making an effort to do that, you like to think he'd be a lot less obvious about wanting her. You don't get him, and you don't get why. You used to know him so well, and less than six months ago you thought you understood him on every level, but now that you think about it, there was always that part of him you couldn't reach. Maybe that part was Casey.

There's still this small, pitiable amount of hope left in you that allows you to dare to think that maybe, just maybe, they won't get together. That this one dumb kiss doesn't mean anything. Hope is a fragile, delicate, fluttering thing ("Hope is the thing with feathers," Emily Dickinson wrote, and you _finally_ get what she meant), and its persistence, despite all the odds, amazes you. But even you're not self-deluded enough to buy into that schlock completely. After all this time, you should know better than to assume that Casey will hold her ground.

Casey's a bit clueless, so she, like you, doesn't notice what's happening until she's in it up to her neck. But you don't have to be there or hear about it to know what's happening. Edwin slowly wins her over, manages to convince her, and you hate every damn minute of it. You can tell he's succeeding, slowly but surely and, really, faster than he should, faster than it had _ever_ been with you, because Casey stops talking about him. The disgust slowly vanishes from her voice when she says his name, and she sounds kind of dreamy, distracted almost, when she talks about him in passing. You can hear the smile in her voice, and it makes you sick to your stomach because you know that things are progressing.

It's still _Casey_ and Edwin, though, so you know it's moving at a slow, tentative pace. You know them both well enough to guess how it's going without either of explicitly telling you. You're only foolish enough to visit them once during this period, and it's probably one of the most uncomfortable weekends of your life—even once was too much. You can tell things have changed by the way they look at each other, how they touch more, the faint blush on your sister's cheeks, the shame you see in her eyes. Edwin never seems to stop looking at Casey, gaze dark and purposeful, and you can't decide whether that hurts you or makes you angry. From the beginning it's apparent to you that he's the one with stronger feelings, that he's still trying to convince Casey of something.

Casey, on the other hand, still seems uncomfortable with this, slightly put off by his intentions, reserved and a bit distant. She thinks he's put her on some sort of pedestal, you realize, and she's trying her best to be that Ice Queen, that condescending, cool goddess who's worthy of praise but wholly unreal, untouchable, aloof. For whatever reason, your sister finds him cute or funny or silly or otherwise adorable and thus pitiful, and she's decided to be charitable and give him a fair chance. He's doing his best to exceed her expectations because he wants to surprise her, to shock her into taking him seriously. It's working, but Casey doesn't know it yet. She thinks herself a little impervious; she thinks him far less charming than he really is.

She's wrong to underestimate him, because you did that too, and look where that left you. Casey doesn't think she'll fall in love with him, you know, but you know better. She doesn't think it'll be anything serious, that it's just a phase, and it'll fizzle out once it runs its natural course, but it wasn't that way for you at all. Besides, dating one's stepsibling is always a serious matter... and how sick is it that you're just a little bit jealous that he chose to date her and not you? He never took you out _once_, not even to the movies where you could make out and fool around as much as you wanted when the lights went down, and no one cared who you were, let alone that you were **related**, as long as you were quiet.

It continues this way for a while in this awkward state of limbo, with you knowing they've got something going on but receiving no confirmation either way. It's worst for you, you think, because you're far away in Kingston, which might as well be a separate country. You're unable to see them together but trying to reconcile the pictures in your head so you can imagine it. Worst of all, though, is the not-knowing. At least three hellish months pass this way before you know for sure. Oddly enough, Edwin's the one who tells you. This feels more than unusual and somehow wrong to you because you should've heard from your sister, especially since she can't keep a secret to save her life.

You don't like that Edwin's the one to tell you, either. He's barely spoken to you in a year, you feel, and he chooses now to call you up and chat like old friends? You haven't had a real conversation since before he left for school, and even then you're fairly certain the two of you were more pleasantly occupied. It all feels a little too contrived, a little too convenient, a little too much like he's rubbing this in your face. He's stopped avoiding you because he's completely over it, and of course he can pretend that nothing ever happened between the two of you because he's dating your sister, but you can't. You feel like him telling you is his way of warning you, of painfully reminding you that you should be long over this, only you're not.

It's okay for him to talk to you now, basically, and he's not afraid of what will happen when you come face to face anymore, let alone the things you say over the phone (and you could say some very interesting things over the phone, but you'd need a pint in you to start talking like _that_). So Edwin calls you up one random day, completely out of the blue. He doesn't beat around the bush very much at all. "Lizzie, your sister and I... we're dating," he tells you finally, and it's **just** as awkward as you always thought it would be. He sounds kind of like your father when he told you that he and your mother were getting a divorce: strained, almost clinical, almost pained to admit it to you. You aren't really surprised by his blunt declaration, but it's different hearing it from the horse's mouth as opposed to the endless speculation.

When he tells you that, you don't know what to say. You've thought about this moment a lot, but you never imagined he'd be the one to tell you. The words you had planned were always intended for Casey, so you falter a little bit, let the awkward silence drag on, before answering. "That's great. I'm very happy for the both of you," you tell him a bit stiffly, feeling very much like a robot, and what's this? As you open your mouth to speak, your eyes water dangerously, and you want to cry. Closing your mouth helps, but tears are hard to hold back. Then again, it doesn't really matter anyway, since he can't see you. You want to ask if he's happy, but you don't. You know that telling you means they're official, probably even public at school, and then the question just slips out, unbidden, before you can silence yourself. "So, when are you going to tell Mom and George?"

Edwin seems a little relieved at this response, like he didn't at all know what to expect. He sighs deeply and starts to speak, "We're going to wait a couple months..." He doesn't tell you that Casey wants to make sure this is something that can last, but you know anyway. Your sister wouldn't risk wrecking your family by writing home about it unless she figures this thing actually has a future. You can't help but think that she's in over her head. Hooking up with your stepbrother, that's diving right into the deep end, and unlike you, Casey's not a seasoned swimmer. He isn't happy with her decision at all (he wants to tell them now and just get it over with already); you can tell from the resignation in his voice. He's kind of insulted that Casey's still not sure about it, even after all the hoops he jumped through to get to this part. He thinks she doesn't trust him, that she doesn't see a future in this, but he forgets who she is.

And because hearing him talk about her and tell you about this has you feeling just a little bit nasty, you laugh at him. He thought he'd be able to have a relationship with Casey the Control-Freak and pull the strings? "Well, good luck with that," you tell him honestly. Suddenly you're not sure he knows who he's dealing with at all; maybe he can't handle Casey after all. You don't really want him to confide in you, and you're not sure how much more of this you can take, so you decide to cut it short. "Look, Edwin, I... I have to go now, okay?" You get it out, and that's what's important, but you kind of stutter while doing it, and then your mouth completely betrays you. It opens of its own accord and starts saying things hastily, "But... it was really nice talking to you, Ed. We should do this again sometime."

The moment that comes out of your mouth, you regret it. You clap your hand over your mouth, but you can't take it back. You're so goddamn stupid, and you shouldn't be because you know better, and he's dating your **sister**! Worse still, there's this paralyzing silence on the other end of the phone. And then, after making you sweat it out, he speaks slowly. "Yeah, it was," he agrees quietly, thoughtfully. "It's been way too long," he adds, and you can feel him opening up to you again, and that's kind of _beautiful. _At the same time, though, it makes your heart beat double-time because there's this funny feeling in your stomach that feels history shifting slowly, and you don't want to go back.

"So, um, goodbye Edwin," you say inelegantly, feeling strangely breathless and unsteady. And then you hang up before he can say a single word, and it's such a damn relief. You exhale deeply, letting some excess nervous energy just _whoosh_ out of you. Like letting all the air out of a balloon, and sucking in helium and your voice is high and breathless. When you look down at your hands a moment later, they're shaking, and there's nothing you can do about it. You hate feeling like this, so out of control, because you know you can't control what Casey and Edwin do, but you should be able to control yourself. But you can't really breathe properly, and, damn it, you've received medals for swimming, so why is it so hard to keep your head above water?

After that, somehow you and Edwin wind up talking once a week. On the one hand, you like it because you're rebuilding those burnt bridges and opening up broken lines of communication, and having a relationship with him is important to you. On the other, you don't because it's difficult. Talking to him is an incredibly nerve-wracking experience. When you talk to him, it feels like every word that comes out of your mouth is clumsy and awkward. You stammer; you stutter; you fail epically in communicating your point. Your heart speeds up, and you're always worrying that he'll see right through you to the idiot you really are. Every ten seconds, too, he subtly reminds you that _it can never happen again_, and he talks about Casey so often that it turns your stomach. And every time you tell yourself it'll get easier, but it never seems to, and you tell yourself that the next time he calls, you just won't pick up.

But you do anyway. And maybe you're a sick person for doing that, but you're sick for other reasons entirely, you think, like having these weird... _feelings _(the damn word alone makes your stupid stomach flutter like it's doing a jig, and you can just see the grimace on Derek's face that sums up your feelings about these feelings)... for your sister's boyfriend.

It's a couple more months before Casey talks about him to you, and you're grateful for this but curious all the same. You hate that, always being a coiled, frustrated, tangled ball of mixed emotions. She makes indirect, delicate hints about it from time to time in your phone conversations, a soft giggle here or there, but she's so careful to avoid the subject that it makes you wonder all the more. Casey **not** talking about it somehow makes its existence all the more important because Casey talks everything to death, and why is _this_ suddenly the exception? If you don't talk about it, it doesn't mean that nothing's going on, but if she doesn't tell you about it then you're forced to act like you have no idea that something's going on. It makes you wonder... When did you two start keeping secrets from one another?

But, then again, you know the answer to that question, don't you? Because he's completely wrapped up in the reason for it too.

Maybe she's afraid to jinx it, or maybe she's uncomfortable talking about her relationship with him, let alone with you (and the irony is that she _still_ doesn't even know about you and him!) because you're family. Or, maybe, you worry, maybe this means that Casey's actually serious about this crazy thing she's got going with your stepbrother. As much as you'd like to think it's a fling or a phase, you're starting to get the sense that it isn't, and that scares you. Maybe avoiding the topic is her way of avoiding sorting out her feelings about it, but Casey's never been the kind to avoid psychoanalyzing, so you don't understand.

After a little eggnog at Christmas, you and Casey talk about it in vague terms. Edwin's there too, and no matter how hard they pretend they're just siblings, you know better. It's not as insufferable as you think it'll be, but it's painful and awkward enough. You find yourself reading into every little touch, the longing looks they send each other when they think no one's looking. Casey's more guarded than he is because Derek's here, and he notices everything. He makes sure to tease her about his brother, and you can tell he's suspicious. He's careful to only teases her about Edwin when your parents or younger siblings aren't around, and Casey turns red but denies everything well enough to mostly convince Derek. Edwin's hurt by these little rejections but especially by the way Derek deliberately monopolizes Casey's attention without even trying. You feel kind of bad for him, but not really because you think he kind of knows how you feel now, and he should know better than to expect that dynamic to change because _he's_ dating her.

Oddly enough, hearing them bicker comforts you. Casey and Derek are fighting as per usual, and there are moments when you think this is _almost_ normal. But then you remember why it's not. That night Casey has too much of Derek's special spiked eggnog, she comes into your room for comfort. They had some kind of little fight, her and Edwin, but you don't know what it was about. Nonetheless, you reassure her that it's inconsequential and that they'll forgive each other in the morning because that's what sisters are supposed to do. You think they're both a little lonely, and you see how frustrated Edwin's growing because he's had hardly any contact with Casey all break, and that's a long time to go without really talking to your girlfriend or even getting more than a few moments alone with her. She falls asleep in your bed, and she wakes mortified in the morning and swears you to secrecy.

Not that it had been a secret to you for a really long time, and she hadn't really told you anything earthshaking anyway, but she's your older sister, so you go along with it because what choice do you have for now?

The very first moment she confides in you, you wish she didn't. It's too much information from the start, and Casey's so damn _enthusiastic_ about everything. You can tell she's just glad to have someone to talk to about this, and that's worst of all. Because you don't really want to know how she feels about him because once you get the point-by-point you'll start to wonder how you feel about him, if you feel more, and you don't effing need that at this precarious point in your life.

You don't like hearing her gush about him and how _perfect_ he is. Because he isn't, and you already know anyway. He was yours first, damn it. And a part of you can't help but feel that he'll always be yours. Yes, you know you're delusional and betraying your sister with your thoughts, but you haven't said any of that out loud, so it doesn't count.

Talking to Casey is worse than Edwin because he knows when he's said too much. She doesn't ever stop talking, period, and once you made the mistake of opening the floodgates, she tells you everything. You get to hear all those little details that jab at your sides like the tines of forks, poking and prodding you. Your nausea gets so bad that you don't want to eat, ever, and you lose ten pounds from it. You can't sleep.

Eventually, it gets to the point where you start to screen your calls and don't pick up at all when you see it's Casey. Stupidly, you still answer the phone when Edwin calls (and maybe this ought to tell _all_ of you something), and then he nags you about it too. When you don't answer Casey's calls, she calls twice as much from other people's phones, her shrill voice whining in your ear. Why doesn't she just get that you **don't** want to talk to her? You can hear the tears in her complaints, the worry in her voice, the honest desire to talk to you, and it makes you feel even guiltier because talking to her is the _last_ thing you want to do. It's nothing personal. So you're forced to make up excuses, and lying to her makes what you're doing even worse.

You don't stop feeling bad. Ever. Since you feel worse about lying to her about it (because you can't tell her the truth for **so** many reasons), you actually do become busy. You fill your schedule with workshops, sports practice, clubs, and community service. You spend twice as long at the gym, learn how to cook, start going to church, and go to office hours every day just to talk to your professors. Because if you're never around, you don't have time to talk to her, and you don't have to hear about it anymore. It's fine in theory but doesn't work well in application.

Eventually your mother intervenes because Casey really got that desperate and really cares that much, and you can't tell either of them that it's Casey's relationship with your stepbrother that's ruining your relationship with her (because then the cat would be out of the bag, and Casey would _have_ to dump Edwin for your sake). You don't want to put her in that position, and since you don't have any better excuses than being really busy and accusing Casey of _smothering_ you, your mother bullies you into accept her calls. In response to this, you adopt a new strategy of just cutting her off or moving to leave whenever she says something you don't want to hear. If you're really desperate you tell her inane stories about your life, and when you have none, you lie.

You chatter on endlessly, twisting your fingers nervously, tugging at your hair, licking and biting your lips until they bleed, talking about anything and everything that comes to mind except **the** thing. You try not to listen to her, to do all the talking, but it's hard sometimes, when Casey's programmed not to let anyone else get a word in edgewise. You talk until you're hoarse and you've almost lost your voice, which gives you an excuse to finally hang up. And every time you get off the phone with her, you're shaking like a damn leaf from the effort of it all, but thank God it's over with. You repeat this ritual once a week to your detriment.

Then, a little after Valentine's Day, she starts asking you to come down and visit. This is approximately your **worst** nightmare because you will be forced to see them interacting in an environment where they're officially a couple, so of course you say (hell) no. You tell her she doesn't want her little sister there to cramp her style. Besides, you say, it's too far a trip for you anyway. You can't drive that far. None of this deters Casey, who's insistent on this all of a sudden.

You think she maybe wants someone from her old life to see the two of them together. You don't want to be forced to reconcile the images of them as separate entities with the reality of them as a couple. She wants to test the waters so to speak, to see how people will take it. Well, you've always known animal testing was cruel, and this only serves to reinforce that belief; you don't want to be her goddamn Guinea pig.

She begs you to visit repeatedly, happy to share this and him with someone from her-his-their old life, only you don't want to share. "I haven't seen you in forever," she implores. You point out that it's only been a couple months, barely two. "You're our dearest friend," she presses. You hate that she used a plural, like they're effing married or something, so you tell her that surely since you have other friends, so does she. You meanly wonder why she doesn't ask Emily or Derek to visit, and that shuts her up for once, but it doesn't stop her. "You're the _only_ one we trusted enough to tell from back home," she persists, laying on the guilt. Only you kind of hate her for telling her, and then you remember that _she_ didn't even tell you until after Christmas. And it pisses you off because, damn it, you had the right to know in advance. That makes it easier to tell her no, that you're fine this way.

You tell her you don't have the money, refuse the offers from both Casey and your mother to pay. You tell her that your life and course schedule are too busy to afford a visit, and Casey asks for a weekend. Casey plagues you with phone calls when you JUST WANT TO BE ALONE, dammit! Even your roommate, who hasn't had the benefit of knowing that understands you want to be left alone. She nags you repeatedly, until every time you talk to her you fight about it, and you're so damn tired of fighting, of persevering when you just want to give in and give up. But it's not in your nature to tap out, so you keep resisting.

Then eventually she threatens to come to you instead, anxious to spend time with the sister she's barely concerned herself with in the past year. You know exactly what it's like to be all wrapped up in Edwin, but thinking of them together still makes you nauseous. You really, really, really don't want to visit them, but it'd be far, far worse if they ever foolishly decided to visit you. You hold off for a long time until you can't anymore. You start to worry that one day you'll come home, and the both of them will just be there waiting for you, and the mere thought sends an icy cold shiver up your spine. It gets to the point where your lack of desire to visit your siblings and friends seems sick, heartless, almost cruel, even, to deny her anymore, so you cave and agree to visit, not really knowing what to expect but _knowing_ you're not going to like it.

You don't know how much you're going to hate it yet, though. At first, you don't know quite what to expect. Casey convinced your mother and his father over Christmas that they could save money by renting an apartment together, and there was no reason for them to say no since they didn't know what was really going on. Honestly, you think your parents were a little relieved because they figured Casey and Edwin would take care of each other, and money was tight with four kids in college, despite all of your scholarships. Still, it's hard for you to imagine it until you're there on their doorstep, and then they open the door for you, and there it is, tastefully furnished by your sister with accents of Edwin here and there.

It's a home, but it doesn't quite feel like a home. It's a nice place with Casey keeps it neat and tidy, and it feels kind of sterile, like they don't really live in it. The furniture's polished, the counters are clear and shiny, and everything is in its proper place. You don't feel like you belong here in this clean, sanitized world of theirs. You feel like you should be on fire because you're thinking those thoughts again in their apartment, and that's as close to blasphemy as it gets. It's kind of awkwardly put together, really, not a perfect mix since they're fairly different. As you walk around the corner, you peer into the open door of Edwin's bedroom. It's messy like it was back home and a little cramped, and your heart flies into your throat when Edwin apologetically tells you that's where you'll be sleeping.

They have an air mattress, a couch, and a futon with a pull-out bed, but Casey insists that you sleep in a real bed. Honestly, you'd rather sleep on the damned uncomfortable couch than in Edwin's dirty bedroom, surrounded by his things, his clothes, his sheets, and his smell. It's more than enough to drive you insane, but you know why you're sleeping there. Casey can't bear to have you on the couch, but she won't sleep in Edwin's dirty bedroom. She's pristine, and why would she demean herself by sleeping in his messy, no doubt bacteria-ridden bed? You can tell, though, from the way she throws Edwin an annoyed look when you step in to throw your things in his bedroom, that she's annoyed he didn't care enough to clean it up for you. Edwin looks sheepish and starts to say something, "Lizzie, I'm sorry..."

You don't let him finish because you can't bear to hear an apology from his lips, real or lie, whichever the case may be, especially over something as trivial as this. So you cut him off instead and say, "Edwin, it's _fine_, really..." Because you're always lying and saying you're fine anyways, and what's one more lie? It's not like he'll know the difference. It's not like he realizes that you're taking this in context of that thing between you two that happened over a year ago that has no name, no permitted verbal acknowledgment of it, despite the fact that it completely derailed your relationship for, like, a year. After all, how could he know that it's always annoyed you how you never got any closure over that, how there's no sense of finality so how the hell are you supposed to know that it actually... _ended_?

You get there and the stepsibling thing is a dirty little secret, between the three of you now, just you three. No one else knows, not even their closest friends, and all you do is stare at Casey. She looks down, and it hits you that she's still kind of ashamed of this, of the origins of this special relationship. You're not particularly surprised they don't publicize it, but you wonder how they explain everything without this vital detail. How can they explain how you know Edwin so well or how their parents let them live together or even how they know each other? Everyone here knows them as a couple and smiles, but you can tell they realize that Casey and Edwin, evenly matched as they are, make an odd couple. You stay behind just a minute to hear what some of them say, and they ask what someone like Casey is doing with someone like Edwin: tall, skinny, still awkward, reserved, calm, quiet even.

You'd like to tell them a thing or two about how confident he _really_ is (because, you think, it takes a certain type of guy to smoothly transition from one sister to the other successfully), how supremely self-possessed, how he isn't what he looks to be at all. He doesn't fit in too well with Casey's artsy friends because he doesn't want to, because he thinks differently. Casey almost feels like she needs to apologize for that, but she doesn't because they don't really know him, not like either of you do. You know that he'll be successful in the future, some sort of big-shot financial guru. But you push down this primal urge to defend him because he might be your brother, but it's still not your place.

And you walk around their college with them, you can't help but wish someone would think _you_ were dating Edwin for a change, and then you're disgusted with yourself all over again. You can't help but feel terribly out of place here. It's clear that there's no place for you, that you can't exist here in the same reality that they do. Each casual little, intimate gesture pains you to watch. You hate it when they walk ahead of you, fingers intertwined as if it's the most natural, easy thing in the world. You hate it when she presses a kiss to his cheek, or, worse still, he kisses her on the mouth. You hate hearing the sound of their lips puckering, connecting and separating. It's a wet, suction sound that makes the bile rise up in your throat and leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You hate it when he says something that makes her laugh because a lot of the time it's not even funny. You hate it when they finish each others' sentences because they don't really know each other that well. And you hate it most of all when they give each other these little side glances or when they look at each other and don't stop staring, and they've forgotten you're in the room entirely. It's like nothing exists outside of their stupid, selfish skins, and you've got no choice but to watch because you can't leave but you can't really stay either. You don't like it, but you do what you can to put up with it.

That night you go to bed early. You're already scheming of ways to get out of this visit early, and you've finally settled on a giant paper you've procrastinated on that's due on Sunday. This will offend Casey's keener do-everything-ahead-of-time sensibilities, and it'll give you the perfect excuse to slip out early.

As you're laying in _his_ bed, which, oh God, smells just like you remember he did, and you can practically feel him here, almost feel his heat, his body... you hear Casey and Edwin leaving the living room. The footsteps pad past your door, and you're reminded rather awkwardly that they're sleeping together in her bed. That his place is no longer here with you, that he's not coming, no matter how much you wish he would. You can't help but wonder if they've done that before or how much they do, and then you get these stupid flashes of them together across your eyelids every time you close your eyes. Even though you don't want to and can't even stand the thought. Because now that you've seen them together, you can picture it. They're at least tasteful in front of you and try to keep the PDA to a respectable minimum because they know it's something you have to get used to... but you think the innocent stuff just mightbe worse than watching them make out. You never got to do any of _that_ with Edwin, after all.

Thinking about them and what they might be doing, sleeping in the same bed... It's worse than all those months of not-knowing ever were, all of a sudden. Just laying there and hearing the door to Casey's room close quietly and knowing they're both in there is _killing_ you. It's like that stupid song by The Killers, and you're not a goddamned musical person like Her. That hurts your pride a little, but what if _she's touching his chest now_, and he's taking off her clothes... And you know you're overthinking this and obsessing over it, and you get that from Casey, of course. You can't help but think that all of this started with a kiss, just a kiss, and now here you are, staying with them when they've been together for these horrible months (and you haven't been counting them, _really_, you haven't).

It hits you then, for the very first time, that you are completely and utterly **screwed** (and you're a virgin!). This revelation comes to you like a hammer fist to the face or a sucker punch in the gut you weren't expecting; it feels like a low blow, and it's left you stinging and dangerously unprepared. You hate not knowing what you're up against, and you've felt this before, but never as intensely or as strongly as you do now. But, in reality, the problem is that for once and for all, you _finally_ know what you're facing, and it damn near scares the soul out of your body.

You still don't want to admit that you've lost this one, but you know it, deep down in your soul, and the resignation starts to settle in. You have a remarkable ability to accept things, no matter how much you dislike them, without truly accepting them. Still, you won't admit defeat, and you'd rather die than surrender. This is something you just _can't_ give into, not ever. You won't raise the white flag, won't say you're through because this is something you're going to have to fight every day, every way, every inch, with every fiber of your being.

And no matter how hard you bite your tongue or press your lips tightly together into a thin white line, it cannot be silenced or held back, the words you've been secretly thinking for over a year. The words that have been long-buried in your subconscious, just barely scraping the surface, etched into the very surface of your brain. The words take a hold of you, roll over you like a tsunami, bringing pain and destruction with them, and you can't dam them back up, can't push back the deluge of warm, wet, all-too-emotional feelings that flood over you. The words themselves are silent and quiet and just in your head, fully thought out for once, and they are: _I'm in love with Edwin._

Yeah, you've felt this way for a while; there's no denying it anymore. But this is the first time you've fully thought out those traitorous, awful words. You were always able to stop yourself before, to hold it in, to prevent it from completing and blossoming outward from you, but there's no stopping now. The words run you over, squish you flat like a damn train at 500 km an hour.

It's a downright horrifying revelation because, for God's sake, you grew up with Edwin, and you, of _all_ people, should know better. You know perfectly well every unappealing quality of his. Because you can't really divorce the past from this, at least not completely, because at heart he's still kinda your brother. He's still the guy who wore the same shirt for over two weeks back in fourth grade. He's still the same guy who wore a mask and dumb he-man get-up like a Mexican wrestler and starred in Derek's C-grade horror films. He's still the guy you made bets with in high school, still the 'tween you observed teenage behavior with, still the boy running away from his tyrant of an older brother, still the kid you saved from bullies in middle school, still the same old _dork_ he always was. And maybe you love him a little more because of that, and maybe that sounds a little like incest... but, hell, you didn't start a damn thing, and it's not like you _ever_ tried to have a real relationship with him.

On the other hand, though, you knew this before. You knew it deep down in your **bones**, and your whole body remembers it with a shudder. Your skin knew from day one the second he touched you in a different way. Your skin remembers how it felt; the tingling in your hands, the heat spreading across you like a slow fire, the salty taste of sweat and the tangy smell of arousal in the air, the gritty friction of clothes on skin, and skin straining against clothes, the dull, building pleasure. You shouldn't be surprised at all, but maybe you became so good at lying that you even managed to get away with lying to yourself. You foolishly thought you could divorce that... whatever it was, the physical... from the emotional, from feelings entirely, but you can't. You'd been showing signs of this for months; you just didn't want to admit it.

And then there's the fact that as this supposed revelation washes over you, you know it's come far too late for you to ever do anything (productive) about it. Suffering in silence, though, is hardly anything new for you, and you think you can deal with it. You like to think you're tough, and you are, but you're not tough enough to face it all like this. But you can't think that way. You prolonged this, you know, but maybe it's better that this didn't happen sooner, and he never found out. Maybe it's better this way.

It wasn't like you didn't give him plenty of chances to come to you, but he **never** asked for anything more, and he never, _ever_ came to you again after that night. You hate him a little for that, but you can't ever really hate him. He only came to you back then because you were convenient, or that's what you tell yourself religiously because, well, what other reason could there be? You don't even want to think that he came to you because he couldn't have her, but you can't help but notice that he had other opportunities, other girls in high school he could've done just as much with if not more. And, after all this time, it _still _bothers you that you don't understand why he did what he did. Why _you_?

What's most annoying, though, about this whole awkward mess of situation (and you haven't even gotten to the actual fact of him being your sister's _boyfriend _just yet), is that you can never ask him. Your relationship with him is confined within very tight bounds, and there are just some things you can't do or say.

It's hard to adjust to this new idea, this deviation in the plan, this stupid thing that just cropped up to ruin your life, like a bitch of a weed in the middle of a bunch of otherwise lovely flowers. You can't just rip it out or stomp it into submission as much as you'd like to because this isn't something that'll just go away. You have to wait it out, and you've never been a patient person. You've already had so much waiting in your short life that it makes you sick, and you choke on it a little more each time.

Suddenly everything's so real, and it's like you're seeing the world in all these stark, new colors that didn't exist before, and it feels more than a little surreal and a hell of a lot like the acid-trip-carnival-ride that is the Wizard of Oz, only Dorothy's never going to find her damn way home again because it doesn't exist anymore (and you _can't_ go back home again, not ever), and everything she thought she knew from before blew away in the damn tornado, and she'd never be satisfied with that stupid black and white dusty farm lifestyle anymore now that she's had a taste of this strange, new land with its Technicolor, pretty poppy-flavored dreams and action and good and evil. But this love is like flying monkeys: bad and dumb and flighty and a giant pain in the ass and unearthly and wholly bizarre, and you're the Wickedest Witch of them all for feeling this way.

You know you're fighting a losing battle, but you can't stop because you can't do anything else. You don't have any other viable options here. You can't _not_ fight this because it's not in your nature to passively let things happen to you. Hell, you made that mistake with Edwin _once_, and look at what it led to! Because, fundamentally, at your core, you're **not** okay with feeling this way. Not for him, maybe not for anyone. You're so out of control here that you don't even recognize yourself, and all your horses and your soldiers couldn't put the pieces of your eggshell back together again because you can't go back in time and pretend this never happened. And you can't just give into these feelings because you'll undoubtedly do something stupid and ruin everything for everyone.

You can't afford to lose this one. You just _can't_. But you can't convince yourself there's a chance you could win because you're still impressed by that heavy feeling of inevitability that's slowly crushing you. You don't sleep all night because you're playing war games, plotting out winning strategies, forcing yourself to concentrate on combating this monster as opposed to thinking about the two of them, together, because this hurts less and feels more productive.

In the morning, you get up early and start repacking your bags, readying your excuse and practicing your apologies. Shock therapy in the form of seeing them together, of exposing yourself to your fear, hasn't worked one bit, so you begin putting your new plan into action (avoidance). You begin subverting your feelings, breaking them down, bluntly pushing them aside by concentrating on other things because you can't let up, not even for a minute. You can't let these feelings in—can't let Him creep in under your door, seeping in insidiously through the cracks in your foundations like He did before. You tell Casey the lie, and she buys it easily, but you can't look at Edwin, not even once.

But, nonetheless, he manages to catch your arm at the last minute when you're leaving, and you're foolish enough to turn your head and look at him, and all your resolve crumbles like a sandcastle. You want to say something, but you don't know quite what to say. He doesn't seem to know either but he keeps staring at you in this very unnerving way that makes you think he sees right through you. And you know you're not going to win, that you can't beat this, but you'll be damned if you stop trying. Edwin swallows when you jerk your arm away from him, giving him an expectant look. "It's a shame you had to leave so early, Lizzie. There was still so much we wanted to show you," he says in a voice that feels like cold water trickling down your spine. You turn away to hide the reflexive grimace at his use of the plural, and then you turn back and feign the proper enthusiasm, fake smile intact.

It's not a shame at all to you. To you, the damn shame is these worthless feelings you've got for him. "You should come back some other time," he urges. Casey quickly nods her assent, and you barely manage to avoid frowning. They look like robots, and visiting them is the last thing you ever want to do. You'd rather dive into a pool of liquor and razorblades or offer your services up to a maximum security prison and go play with serial killers.

"Sure," you tell them because it's the right thing to say, but you don't mean it. And the fake smile on your face doesn't slip at all, but it doesn't match your eyes either. You have no intention of ever going to visit them again because, Christ, you're not _that_ stupid or that much a masochist. You're just saying these things because you don't want to start a fight. Sweet smile still firmly in place, you lie through those pretty little teeth of yours and tell them that you had a lovely time and wish them the best. You don't ask them to repay the favor because the only thing you'd like worse than being forced to visit them would be being surprised by a visit from them and being forced to house them in your already tiny dorm room.

That summer you stay on campus and take summer classes while doing an ambitious summer program. You also find time to be an orientation leader for incoming students. Being so busy allows you to forget about them, to not be jealous or constantly wondering what they're doing. You go home only once because your mother mandates it; it's someone's birthday. You stay little more than a weekend, and you see Edwin only a handful of times, but it's still too much. You see him so rarely now that it kind of suspends time and leaves you breathless, and you hate that hopeless fluttering feeling that accompanies it.

Because, damn it, you're not hopeless. You try and tell yourself that maybe you're not doomed to love him, but even you don't believe that. You're strong, and you know you can overcome this. You _can_. Only why can't you seem to believe it yourself?

- Loren ;*


	3. All Over You

Somehow, though it kills you to do it, finally admitting it to yourself allows you to be close to him again like you couldn't be before. There's a little less tension in your interactions because you're no longer uncertain about what he is to you. Now that you've laid it out on the table, it's remarkably simple for you. As the long months pass, you grow accustomed to the feelings and learn to control them, to suppress them, to bury them deep down in the black hole inside of you where you'll never find them and no one can ever see them (only this: the problem with black holes is that they slowly suck their surroundings down with them, tearing apart the matter atom by atom, and it's _excruciatingly_ painful and self-destructive of you).

There's a desperation in your actions to regain normalcy, to find once again the status quo and get things back to the way they were before. You know things have changed, but he really is a vital part of your life, or he ought to be at any rate. It may be painful, but he'll be in your life regardless, whether you like it or not, and you might as well have a normal relationship with him (well, as "normal" a relationship as you can have with _the stepbrother that got away_). You'll take what you can get, you grimly acknowledge. You don't cling to him for attention; you become closer because it's your way of convincing yourself there's nothing there. If you're close to him, like a sister or a friend, then you're above reproach, and who would ever suspect the truth of your feelings?

You dislike your role, but it's yours to play, so you're forced to accept playing intermediary and confidante. You're the only one who knows their dirty little secret, the only one who truly understands them and the situation (though you privately think you understand the situation _far_ too well for your own mental health). The pain lessens from desensitization, and you're able to cope with them better as days pass, especially if they're at a distance, and you can't see them. Yet another reminder of their relationship is a dull ache, but it's a pain you're used to, a pain you can bear with cool dignity.

You try and be good, but you can't, not wholly, at any rate. It's always been different, you talking with Edwin, and different in a way that unsettles you, especially with the closeness you've worked hard to regain. You imagine or feel a thousand tiny improprieties in your conversations with him, little flickers of thoughts sisters shouldn't have for brothers and you shouldn't have for your sister's boyfriend. You can't fix this, can't correct it, no matter how hard you try, because there are still all these things between the three of you, hanging up in the air, and you can't let them fall, can't drop them, or else they'll all crash and smash everything to smithereens. You don't know _how_ to fix this, but sheer effort alone isn't enough.

You can't go back in time. Ever.

What you can do, indeed, _all_ you can do, is grin and bear it and pray to God that he doesn't notice. To compensate, you make sure to be extra vigilant in all of your exchanges with him. But that's not enough either. You don't know what more you can do.

Then Christmas comes, and you're filled with a sense of dread and anxiety because this happiest time of year is when Casey and Edwin have decided to tell everyone about their relationship. You can personally testify they've been at this over a year, as much as it pains you to admit it, you know in your heart that this is something that's meant to last. They wouldn't be telling your family, much less at Christmas, if they didn't think it was serious.

Since you're dreading that particular announcement, you're dizzy and busy and distracted in the weeks leading up to it. You dodge calls from Casey like no other because she's really sweating this out and no doubt wants to vent to _you_, but you can't let her do that. You don't want to rehash details you didn't want to know in the first place. You've heard the plans but don't remember them because you haven't really been listening for months. Maybe Casey tells Nora she's bringing her new boyfriend home for Christmas, or maybe it's the other way around.

Either way, all you know is that they tell your family before you get there. You're unsure as to whether they were too impatient to wait any longer and just wanted to finally rip the damn Band-Aid off already or if you yourself stalled in arriving here because you didn't want to subject yourself to their careful explanations. It's probably more of the latter, but you can't mind too much. What truly bothers you is that this is a sensitive matter that requires careful, in-depth, emotional explanations, and somehow the both of them have managed to completely botch it up. This shouldn't surprise you as much as it does because when has all of Casey's planning ever _not _blown up in her face?

When you arrive, the house looks like a war zone both literally and figuratively, and you're the one who has to do clean-up operations and smooth everything over. It's a dirty, tricky, complicated job, and you're the unlucky bitch who has to do it because Casey's hysterical and Edwin's avoiding everyone. Everyone's still so confused about what's going on and the circumstances of their relationship. Out of your entire family, too, you're apparently the _only_ one that saw this coming, so they're all in a profound state of shock. You explain again and again until you're tired of the words, tired of having to do this, tired of countering your parents' objections, tired of reciting the same trite phrases over and over again. Eventually, though, through days of painful, tedious repetition, the whole family understands and is, on the whole, in your opinion, disturbingly accepting of it.

Of course, this is excluding Derek, the exception to all rules. His reaction is predictable and familiar, and such a damn _relief_ that you love Derek more than you ever have just for that. His reaction resonates with you on a deeper level; you understand it and see a small sliver of yourself mirrored in him. He's explosively furious, too hot to touch, breathing fire and spitting acid. Derek makes this clear to the others by being unusually brooding, stalking around the house, being twice as inconsiderate as usual, glowering at anyone who looks at him twice. Smoke's practically coming out of his nostrils like some cartoon character, and it almost amuses you, or it would if it weren't so sad.

He shows his extreme displeasure to the happy couple by insulting them and their relationship at any chance he gets. He whips out all of his A-material for them, and in a sick way, you agree with him more often than you should. You wonder if he hears Casey sobbing in her bedroom at night about it sometimes (you know those walls are _thin_), but if he does, he doesn't show it. He doesn't talk to them much at all, but he openly, loudly, and publicly disapproves when it's just the two of them, sometimes you, and him. He even schemes (and fails) to break them up, and he's eventually forced to give up because your parents don't approve of his attitude or pranks at Christmastime.

The whole time, too, when Derek looks at you, it's a stare of supreme disbelief. Obviously he knows you knew first and kept their secret, but pretty soon it's apparent it's not _that_ that has him looking at you funny. One night about a week afterwards, a little before Christmas, he finds you and corners you in the hall by your bedroom. Admittedly, you're intimidated because Derek's a tall, imposing, and dangerous figure now. He's stronger than he's ever been, and he's making something of himself on the rink more and more each day. He's in your space, all around you, and you feel uncomfortable because he's your brother, and you're not prepared to kick his ass to save yourself. "How do you stand it?" he demands, and the smell of rum on his breath hits you all of a sudden. Apparently he's been nipping a little too much of his own eggnog.

You blink at him numbly, and Derek rolls his eyes, snorting and pulling away from you. You try and tell him that you don't know what he's talking about, but the words don't come out fast enough. And Derek gives you this look like he sees through you like a damn pane of glass, and you hate him all over again for it. In retrospect, you were rather obvious about it. It's approaching the second anniversary of the end of whatever-it-was-you-had (you won't _dare_ to call it a relationship), and this is just salt being rubbed into another open wound, and so maybe you're moping a little. "Remember who you're talking to here, Liz. How can you _stand _seeing them together?" he insists once more, saying it as if he still can hardly believe it. At first, you don't know what you can say.

It feels if you say anything at all, you'll be saying too much and convicting yourself on the spot. But you can see from the look in Derek's eyes that he's really curious, and he's willing to listen. He's willing to listen to you talk about something you've never spoken of to another living soul. He's willing to listen to you, and that alone is almost enough for you. No one's really listened to you in years. It's the haunted look in his eyes, though, that makes you finally relent, because that look says he knows full well the cost of keeping a secret like this to yourself. _He'll understand,_ you think.

So you sigh, and then you start to talk, "It's a fact of life, Derek... and it's something you just have to get used to because they're going to be together for a long time. I might not like it, but I still love them both and want them to be happy. And they're happy together. I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to." Your voice is quiet, almost weak-sounding, and pathetically resigned. Derek looks at you then, and that piercing stare of his strips back all your layers and sees you for the broken doll you are.

"It's real sad that you've given up so soon, Liz." He's still got some fight in him, but you don't. You're so consumed with trying to stay afloat, fighting to conceal this secret, just fighting to get through every day, that you don't bother challenging their relationship. It's become a basic assumption to you, and if they weren't together, then you'd be forced to do something about these feelings you've got. Derek shakes his head at you, a vaguely sad look flickering on his face like a dying candle. And then he turns and leaves abruptly like a villain or vampire in a movie, no doubt plotting the demise of the aforementioned relationship you're wise enough to know you can't defeat.

The next night, Derek pulls Edwin aside after dinner (quite literally, by his collar, and damn near throws him up against the wall). You watch it all unfold through the crack in your door. "What the **hell **do you think you're doing, kid?" he snaps at him, shaking him. You open the door a little wider to go out and intervene because you seriously think Derek's going to hurt him. Surprisingly, Edwin holds his ground, and though he speaks too softly for you to hear what he's said, it seems to have made some sort of impression upon Derek. Then Derek's eyes darken, and he snarls tactlessly, "Look, I've done a lot of messed up stuff in my life, but nothing as bad as this... Screwing with both of our stepsisters is a new low. You're dating the _wrong_ McDonald, Edwin. You know it, and I know it. The sooner you admit it to yourself and break things off with Casey, the better it'll be for everyone."

You're simultaneously mortified and intrigued. You desperately want to hear what Edwin's going to say, how he's going to defend himself. It sounds kind of like a threat, but you didn't tell Derek about what happened before, much less confirm anything, because, so help you, you might be able to confide in Derek now, but you're taking that particular secret to your grave. Derek's damn near shaking with anger, and you're not sure if he's furious more because of you or because of Casey (probably Casey, since you two have never been the closest and she never fails to get him worked up). Edwin's a stubborn, confident sonuvabitch, though, because he roars, "**No**, Derek! I'm not going to dump her because _you_ want me to! I love Casey, okay?"

**No** **one** ever tells Derek no, so he's in shock (and, for that matter, so are you... since when did Edwin have that kind of _guts_?), reeling from his brother's defiance and perhaps the revelation of his feelings for Casey, which, tragically, seem horribly real. When you hear that confession from Edwin's lips, you can feel a small part of you break off inside and flutter away. That bastard didn't say one damn word about you, and you kinda secretly wanted him to. Your stomach drops to the floor; you suck in a breath, and suddenly you're drowning... A few quiet tears seep out, and you brush away the saline with the back of your hand. You stifle sobs, fight the involuntary shaking of your body, clam your lips up tight so not a single sound gets out. You don't want to be as weak as you feel.

You can tell that Edwin kind of knows, more or less, that this is something Derek won't ever be okay with and that he's got some idea why Derek's acting this way, and it imbues Edwin with a sort of cockiness as a result. Because he's got the girl. Edwin says something then, something that Derek finds personally offensive since he almost slugs him for it. You say almost because they're interrupted by the flouncing princess they're fighting over. Sometimes, you think, you really _do_ hate Casey. She pulls them away from each other, and she doesn't understand, of course, not like you do, and not like Edwin does.

It's your typical predictable Casey-related drama. "I can't believe the two of you!" _Really,_ you think, _you can't, sis? Not after all these years of living with them?_ She knows who they are by now. Casey's standing firmly in the middle of them, and she's been there a lot longer than these past few seconds (but you're probably the only one brave enough to realize it). She criticizes them, cuts them down, but of course she assumes the worst of Derek and comes down harder on him. She glowers at Derek and treats Edwin like a child who needs looking after, and you resent her for it. "Grow _up_, Derek! I know you don't want me dating your little brother, but you're just going to have to deal with it," Casey snaps in a tone that leaves no room for disagreement.

His jaw clenches; Derek doesn't like being talked to like that, and it's worse coming from Casey. "I don't _have_ to deal with anything, Casey, and I _won't_. Especially not because you told me to. I can't stop you from dating my brother, but I'm not going to just sit here and _accept_ it," Derek snarls, uncharacteristically upset. Derek's normally all ice, no fire, when he's angry, but this time is different. He says the latter part like it's a dirty word and throws a dirty look at Edwin before his eyes lock once more with Casey's, and the look he gives her chills you to the bone. "He's all wrong for you, Casey. And the both of you are going to regret this."

It's a cool warning, but it sounds like a prophecy. Derek storms off after that, not having forgiven either of them, and Casey and Edwin are left there, standing, awkwardly in the hall, not quite knowing what to do or say. Casey's crying, of course, and Edwin tries to comfort her, but he's confused and shell-shocked himself. He's always been bothered by his inability to completely figure out Derek and Casey's relationship, and so he cannot be the one to comfort her in this case. After that you notice Derek and Casey's relationship cools in a way it never has before; it's damn near frozen solid, and Derek is silent as death, unapproachable now. Casey _can't_ apologize for this, _can't_ **fix** this (and, then again, maybe she _won't_, too), and it's driving her crazy.

Privately, you agree with Derek, so when Casey comes to you, you can't really reassure her like you normally would. You soothe her as best as you can, but you're tired and really not in the mood. And you can't bring yourself to mean _anything_ you say. "He'll come around," you tell her half-heartedly (and you kind of hate yourself for it because it's a complete lie). He won't, though. She sniffles up at you and asks you if you really think so, and you tell her yes, even though you're really thinking that it will be a cold day in Hell before Derek changes his mind. Then again, you think, time has a funny way of fixing everything, so maybe he'll get over it, so it's not necessarily a lie... just a really, really, _really_ unlikely possibility.

Later, as you're still dealing with this drama that isn't your own at all, as the whole family is still adjusting, something magical happens. Casey, worn out by all the holiday planning and her emotions, is in her bedroom, passed out. You've stayed up late this Christmas, taking out and frosting the dozens of Christmas cookies that a nervous, hand-wringing Casey's made to try and deal with her emotions constructively. You know you're overcompensating, but your idle hands need to do something or else you'll be driven to distraction in all the wrong ways. You help out George and Nora, too, by playing Santa. And, so what, the surprise is ruined for you, but you don't care because you're a grown woman now, not a little girl anymore, and you stopped believing in him long ago. Christmas miracles don't happen to girls like you, and you've made your peace with that.

Edwin's been out late, probably buying last-minute Christmas presents. Typical Venturi. So he shakes the snow off of his coat, smiling and a little too merry, and he takes the wrapped gifts out of the bag and puts them under the tree. You're tired and drawn, and you still have so much work to do. Nonetheless, Edwin catches sight of you at the kitchen table bent over the batches and batches of cookies, carefully frosting them with a precision that even Casey would admire. And before you can stop him or so much as protest, he reaches over and grabs a hot gingerbread cookie, practically stuffing it in his mouth, and he smirks at you.

You're too exhausted to do much more than roll your eyes and give him a weak form of your withering glance. You damn near jump a foot in the air when he puts his hand on yours (like a damn electric eel, he is!) and tries to pull you away. Initially you refuse, but you've forgotten how persistent Edwin can be when he wants to be. "C'mon, Liz, you've been at this for hours. You've done so much, and you're exhausted. Besides, you know Liam will be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. The cookies can wait. You need to get some rest," he cajoles, slowly pulling you towards the stairs. His eyes have locked with yours, and it's seductive, hypnotic, so you give into it and become a rag doll.

The more he talks, the more it makes sense, you think. And it'd be awful nice to take a break, even if Casey's going to be disappointed with you in the morning. So you follow him up the stairs sluggishly, and you let him lead you to your room, only for some reason you stop at the base of the staircase to his room. A conflicted, guilty look flashes across his face, like he's automatically assumed you were going to go up there with him. And it makes you think that maybe he really _does_ remember, that maybe, judging by the panic on his face, he hasn't really forgotten at all. Because it did happen in this house, after all, all _over_ this house. You just meant to say goodbye and goodnight, though (and you're not exactly feeling very lucid here, so maybe you actually were going up to his room with the intention of having your way with him), but your mouth is slow to open, and your tongue is languid like honey.

Then you look up and, surprise, surprise, there's a sprig of mistletoe hanging directly above your heads. Your mouth stays open, lips frozen in a silent gasp. Casey probably put it there so she and Edwin could have an excuse for goodnight kisses, since they can't sleep together. Also, it's up so high in a place Liam never goes, so it's not dangerous. You're _staring_, and Edwin foolishly puts his hand on your arm to ask you a question, concerned. So you point up at it, and you whisper, "Mistletoe." And then you look at him, and he looks at you, and _hell_, you both know what that means.

You force yourself to look away from him and look around to make sure there's no one awake, no one to witness this. Because, maybe, just _maybe_, if no one's there to watch, he'll actually do it. Touch you like he hasn't in almost two years. Edwin blinks, and you decide that he isn't going to do it and start to turn away. His hand's still on your shoulder, though, and all of a sudden, his other hand clamps down on the other shoulder. He pulls you to face him, and you have to look him in the eyes.

And you'll never forget what words he utters next. "I guess that means we have to, um..." He looks strangely nervous all of a sudden (it's not like you two _haven't_ done this before minus the mistletoe) and kind of stutters. He gestures awkwardly up at the mistletoe. You try not to look too excited, but you're not sure if you succeed.

"Yeah," you murmur breathlessly, terribly grateful for the damn plant. And then you move forward awkwardly, in fits and starts, because you two are out of sync. You don't kiss him, though. You merely stand there, so close but so far, waiting for him to make that move. It's his damn turn this time, and you're not moving one more inch to accommodate him. Then his hands slide off of your shoulders, and he's the one who finally puts his lips on yours. And it's kind of magical.

It's brief and chaste, your first kiss in over two years. You don't even open your mouth, and his lips are the only part of him that touches you at all, but it _still_ makes you feel like Jello that hasn't set up right. His lips taste like gingerbread and pure snow, and you want more. Suddenly you're **awake**, and damn, you feel _alive_ for the first time in years. And maybe you've been dying without him. Just a little, going through the motions of life yet not really living... like a zombie.

You should feel guilty, and you do, but, damn it, it _feels_ right. But it can't last, and nothing (especially nothing _good_) can come of it, and he doesn't feel that way anymore, if he **ever** did, and you don't either. Or so you tell yourself, at any rate. Still, Casey hasn't laid her claim on him just yet, completely, and that gives you this window, this _small_ window... but you won't be the other woman, and you won't spoil this for them, so you just back away and smile like you never did anything and make up your mind to forget about it.

You're the one who pulls back, not him, a little guiltily at that. Your eyes are closed and slow to open, but his are open and staring back at you like he hasn't really seen you in a long time. You think he hasn't. You don't allow yourself to be embarrassed, but he has this taken aback look on his face, and you think helplessly that it was only a kiss and _what_ did you do to be looked at like that? "Wow," he mutters, and you silently agree. And, oh, **God**, you want to kiss him again and this time do it right and kiss the living daylights out of him and knock him back on his heels and do it so completely that he's ruined _forever_ for Casey.

But you don't think you can kiss like that. And it's treason, so you don't. You can't. You won't.

"Um," you clear your throat, and isn't this awkward? It was never this awkward before with you two, but this is different. This feels wrong. This, if you let anything happen (no matter how much you want it to), could hurt people other than yourself. For a long time you pause there and don't say anything at all because nothing comes to mind. Then you collect yourself, mop yourself up off the floor, and you manage tightly, "Merry Christmas, Edwin." It's not what you want to say, but it's all you can say without betraying someone.

For once, the smile's genuine.

If you didn't know him better, you'd think he looks almost disappointed as you turn your back on him and he heads up those cold stairs to his room (alone). But you're too tired and not delusional enough yet to entertain such wistful thoughts, so you push the irrational thoughts aside and go to sleep like a good little girl.

Things aren't quite normal after that, but you think it's just you with the problem. Edwin seems to act the same around you, but you're not really paying attention because you're too busy trying to hide your own increasingly mixed feelings, which suddenly hit you full force. And all your work is basically shot. You can't really avoid him either, but it's surprisingly easy to keep your distance. You leave _right_ after New Year's, making up something for yourself to do. You're going on a trip soon, a busy week of research for your thesis. It's just a preliminary trip and isn't really that important, but they don't know that, so you make it out to be bigger than it is.

The trip's a couple weeks away, and you've had it planned for ages. By that time, school won't have started yet, so you won't miss any classes. You've already booked your hotel room, and you've decided you're going to take the bus. You're going down to Alberta to study the environmental impact of oil drilling, and if you can swing it, you'd like to go to a facility where they clean up animals who've been in oil spills. You think you've got a lot in common with an animal like that, in the wrong place at the wrong time and, as a result, helpless and covered in slick, hot, dirty oil, black as your traitorous heart. You think that maybe if you get a chance to help clean these animals, then maybe you can clean up the mess that is your own life.

Casey calls you up and asks you if you want to do anything for your birthday. You'd forgotten about that, actually. You're not much of a person for going out, honestly, and the trip doesn't seem worth it. Besides, you'll probably still be recovering from the whirlwind that is your Alberta trip and preparing yourself for classes. Plus, just the mere thought of being forced to sit through a dinner with her and Edwin and their clueless little friends makes you want to rip your hair out. You politely tell her no and make up some crap about going out to coffee with some of your friends. You don't intend to celebrate your birthday, and you don't really have friends here (how _can_ you have friends, no matter how many people you know or how popular you are, if you're not really yourself?).

Then, two days before you're going on this trip, Edwin calls and tells you that coincidentally he's also going to Alberta for research on the ecosystems of the prairies. For a long, long minute, you try in vain to remember telling him where you were going, much less why you were going, because his excuse sounds conveniently like yours. Naturally, he's decided that it would be more logical for the two of you to go together, despite the fact that him driving down to get you and then the two of you going on a cross-country trip together is not only inefficient and wasteful but a downright **bad** idea. Almost immediately you get this bad, bad, _bad_ feeling about it, because you know no good can come of this. And you know he's pushy and persuasive, and you don't want to fall back into this trap again... because being around him is like walking in quicksand. With every step forward, you sink a little further until you drown.

Nonetheless, Edwin defies logic and somehow incapacitates your better sense, despite your best efforts, as always, and manages to convince you in this cockamamie scheme. It gets to the point where it'd look too suspicious to say no, so you're essentially forced to say yes. He announces that he'll be down bright and early the next morning so you can get a head start going there and gallantly offers/thrusts upon you the afternoon/night shift. You should know so much better than this.

For the record, you **do** actually go to Alberta, the both of you, together, and nothing happens, despite what anyone else might think (but not then, then no one suspects). It's easier than you would think, given the circumstances. You use all that time in the car to read and sleep and seldom talk. You stop for meals and bathroom breaks, but you don't stop often, and then you switch at around three in the afternoon. Edwin stays up for longer than he should, and he just... stares at you, longer than he should. You feel his eyes boring into you, but you don't dare to look at him. What you do, instead, is tell him to go to sleep. It kind of lulls you into a false sense of security that goes away when you get to Banff.

And you stop at this cheap motel, and Edwin rents the two of you a room, and suddenly you feel dirty all over. Like you must look exactly like the girl who's in love with her sister's boyfriend, and the clerk gives you this sideways glance like she sees right through you. And it feels like you're betraying Casey. But he's just renting a room, and it's not like it doesn't have two beds. It's not like you haven't been on vacation with him before, shared living space with him before.

So why does it feel wrong now? Like you're sneaking around with him? Like you're that girl he respects just enough to take to a tacky motel that charges by the hour. You're not even doing anything! You don't like the scummy feeling that creeps over you and clings to your skin like a ring around a bathtub. Not that Edwin seems to notice any of this. In fact, you'd say he's blissfully unaware. He's so damn talkative and perky about the whole thing that it reminds you disgustingly of Casey (and you've always **hated** how couples rub off on each other), and eventually it gets to the point where you want to shoot him in the head just to make it all stop already.

Fortunately, nothing happens, but you can feel this undertone of something bubbling ominously under the surface, and you don't like it. You're both here to do separate projects, so you only see each other at night and for meals. Otherwise, you're out in the wilderness, collecting samples, jotting down observations, and testing things. But even then, there are awkward, uncomfortable moments where you walk out of the bathroom, toweling your hair, and he's there, towel in hand, and you've got to awkwardly maneuver around him in the tight space. The morning routine grows stale and uncomfortable fast: taking turns, sharing the bathroom, bumping into each other at every turn. And there are times where you glance over and catch him taking off his shirt at night and hurriedly look away, cheeks burning, pretending you never saw anything. And it makes your skin prickle.

You start to wake up at the crack of dawn because it's a walk, and you'd like to study nature at sunrise, and then you start staying a bit past sunset, claiming you're caught up in your work or that it's equally important to observe nocturnal creatures. Then it gets to the point a few days in where you start skipping lunch and then a couple times dinner just to avoid him. You've got bags and bags of evidence collected, pages and pages of observations noted down (all of which you don't really need), and you spend all the spare time you have analyzing, testing, experimenting, cataloging, and writing reports. Edwin's not as good at pretending as you are, so you can tell that he knows you're avoiding him and that it bothers him, that this trip hasn't turned out at all how he envisioned it.

There's none of the camaraderie or familiarity he expected, the kind that comes from a deep friendship or living together for eight years. He expected that you'd have those long conversations you always had before, the kind where you'd stay up all night talking. Phone calls are one thing, but that's dangerous territory now for you, in _person_, when he's dating your sister. That's from before. He expected going out to bars and drinking together, playing games together, watching TV in your crappy little motel room, maybe going out to the movies together. All of that's from before, and you can't be _that_ girl anymore.

You don't talk unless it's absolutely necessary. You never really attempt to engage him in conversation, and you respond basically when spoken to. You don't like this silence any more than he does, contrary to his beliefs, because it's lonely and isolating, and it reminds you that the two of you really are _strangers_, have been since that night when it all ended. It's necessary for your sanity, so you put in headphones and crank up the music so you can't hear him when he talks. You bury yourself in work, in reading, in solitary activities that isolate you even further. But you still know he's frustrated.

He knows you're wary of him, that you're kind of walking on your tiptoes around him, and that all of the sudden, it feels different to him. To you, it's like walking on hot coals or that instinctive reaction to draw your hand back after touching something hot. You don't want to get burned.

There's a point, though, when there's really no more you can do. You can't keep running from him forever. Edwin is, by no means, a confrontational guy, but you're not too surprised when he corners you and demands to know why you're acting so weird. He calls you on your lies, outright says that you're avoiding him, and a wry little smile twists at your lips because you didn't think he would, and you kind of respect him for that. You don't really deny it because, well, how can you? It is the truth.

But you don't want him to know that, so you say half-heartedly that you did have a lot of work to do, and you're sorry that you've been swamped lately, but this project is making you really nervous. He immediately takes this opportunity to offer you help, which you neither want nor need. You admit, finally, that maybe you were avoiding him a bit because, well, you don't really know how to react around him. You're sure to stress that it's because he's Casey's boyfriend. Because that's new, and you haven't really been around him without her there too.

You don't tell him that you haven't been alone with anyone resembling a boy in months. You don't tell him that you haven't ever been on vacation without your parents or sister. And, **a****bove all**, you don't tell him that you can't trust yourself around him, much less that it's _weird_ around him because of what happened with the two of you way back when. Because you're supposed to have gotten over that ages ago, but it stubbornly remains a gaping wound. Gaping.

It doesn't matter, though, because he seems to accept what you say and goes so far out of his way to be friendly and kind and straining so hard to make this not half as awkward as it is that you have to play along and be all palsy with him now, and you _hate_ it. Because now you're forced into believing that this is all perfectly normal, when it's the exact opposite. You're forced to pretend that this is normal, that you can actually be friends with Edwin.

Then you drive back, and it kinda is just like old times when you drove to school together in the Prince and bickered and fought over the radio. You remember the stench of the car, the wind in your hair, the garbage under your feet, the way the car sputtered to life. And you miss it. But you also remember the thin tension underlying your every action, at that time unresolved, unspoken. And you remember the big fights and the silences and not seeing each other, that distance of being in the same car even though you might as well be on different planets.

So you drive much faster than you should, and by the time you get to your dorm room, your nerves are like frayed wires. You're jittery from too much caffeine, unable to sit still, unable to stop, stir-crazy, and you could _kiss_ the snow outside. You're dying to relax, and Edwin's too tired to make the drive back to Toronto. Besides, he's got one more day before he has to go back, and he knows you've got a couch and a free bed. And it _is_ your actual birthday, so he insists on celebrating (preferably with the alcohol you can now legally drink). You invite him up, against your better judgment, and you pull out this ridiculous bottle of raspberry vodka with shaking hands because you need a stiff drink, and you're gonna need some to get through this.

It kind of backfires on you because the two of you wind up doing shots and laughing and talking and playing cards... and it all spirals out of control on you. It burns on the way down, the way you're afraid he might. The lights are dim, and some soft music's playing, you think, and you're well on your way to being a drunken mess, sitting too close, looking too deeply... when he speaks, and it's like he's speaking for the first time. Because it is the first time. "Did you forget? Is that it?" he asks, studying you. You think he's less drunk than you are, but you're not sure.

You shake your head because you're confused and say something about how you don't understand what he means. Edwin looks down, and for a moment you think you've called his bluff, but then his eyes, determined, meet yours. And you know what he's going to stay before he says it. "What happened with us," he clarifies a bit defiantly. You knew it was coming, yes, but you're still not prepared. It's as if all the breath's been knocked out of you, like his words are the equivalent to a punch in the solar plexus.

And then, when it finally hits you, you're freaking pissed off. Because he's got some audacity to bring it up now, of all times, and worse still, he _dares_ to think you'd actually forget something like that. It's freaking insulting, that's what it is! You want to call him names, to hit him, but somehow you manage to restrain yourself. "No," you say, pausing for a moment too long because you don't want to say something revealing about yourself. _I could never forget that_, you think bitterly, because it's effectively ruined your life. Then, a moment later, accusingly, "You did." He looks flummoxed, so you decide to continue on, "You're the one who up and left and started dating my _sister_, of all people."

He blinks, clearly surprised. This is an unexpected attack for him, but these things have been simmering within you, silently boiling over for quite some time. "You knew I was leaving..." It's true, but it's not _that_ he left. It's the way he left, the way he severed all ties, the way he just... ended it without even consulting you. Or saying goodbye. The way he acted like it meant nothing, like you didn't matter. The way it made you feel... cheap and disposable, forgettable, unworthy. He stops talking and kind of gapes in disbelief for a bit. "Why didn't you ever say anything?" he questions, hidden emotions heavy in his voice.

You shrug like it's nothing, but it isn't. "What exactly could I say, Edwin? We didn't talk about it when it happened. Why would afterwards be any different? I couldn't exactly chew you out for moving on to my sister like I wanted to, now could I?" you spit, more bitterly than you anticipated. Saying anything hadn't really been an option for you. It hadn't been that kind of thing, and he knew it. He took advantage of that fact, just like he took advantage of the situation. You glower at him with hot, stabbing eyes, inherently mistrustful. "Anyway, why do you care **now**? You didn't then, and it doesn't matter because you're dating my _sister_," you continue irritably, not knowing why you emphasize the fact that she's your sister every time.

This conversation wouldn't be taking place if you were both sober, you think. It's a sobering fact, a bit. He gives you this positively tragic, pitying look and reaches out for you, but you jerk away because you're not the pitiful one here. "I always wondered why you didn't do anything..." he murmurs, and you bristle like nobody's business. Because this is **not** your fault.

"What was I _supposed_ to do, Ed? Fight for you? Fight for something that was never mine to begin with? Fight for someone who didn't want me? You're the one who started it. Why didn't _you_ ever do anything, huh?" you snap because he's hit too close to home, and you're still sore about the fact that he just stopped... Pursuing is what he did, and when he stopped, you took it to mean that he was over it. Because the question he's just voiced is the same damn question you've wondered more or less every day since he left. You're a fighter, but even _you _know a losing battle when you see one.

And Ed's the textbook definition of failure in your life. You've come to master the art of losing. He actually looks chagrined, afraid almost, and you're damn glad. You throw back a double heartily. All this time he hasn't talked about himself at all, and you've never known how he felt about the whole damn thing. And, yeah, it's kinda been driving you effing CRAZY for years, but you haven't let that on because you don't let anything on because you're a pro at this by now. He says us, but he really means you. He doesn't mention Casey either, and you don't tell him just how gauche you think it is, him fooling around with you for a while before "upgrading" to your big sis. "You wanted me?" he asks slowly, marveling at it, as if he can't himself believe it, and he's wondered for a long time.

You roll your eyes because even now, this whole thing is all about him. There's no want_ed_; you **want**. But you don't tell him that. Instead, you go for the tough route, crossing your arms over your chest, wishing him death with your eyes. "You didn't ever see me pushing you away, did you? Or telling you to stop? Did I? I think that sends a pretty clear message. More clear than your lame _experimentation_ or whatever the hell that was for you," you rejoin, and you can hear the anger in your voice and so can he. He's visibly taken aback by it because you're not an angry person, only you are now (because he's effectively driven you _mad_). And you're so damn sick and tired of pretending none of it gets to you, that it didn't happen at all.

You're fed up with the forced erasure of that part of your life and the careful repression of valued memories. You hate him for putting you in this situation. And you're so caught up in your slowly-building, swirling rage that you don't notice him grabbing your arms and pulling himself towards you. You're drunk, and you feel no pain. You feel nothing when he grabs your wrists, when he pushes himself forward, squeezing your bones together. Only he's suddenly _right_ there when you look up and reenter reality, and his eyes are too dark. Damn if you know what that means. Then his voice is too soft, and he breathes, "It wasn't an experiment." But to you it feels like one, so his breathy words are meaningless.

He foolishly continues to talk, like you even want to listen and hear this. _This_ is obviously why you avoided this conversation, but it was inevitable, you guess. Everything in your life is so damn inevitable. He sighs, tugging on your arms, trying to make you look at him, but you won't. "Look, Lizzie, I... God, don't make me say it," he mutters incoherently. You don't think you could make him say a damn thing if you tried, and you don't get what he means. Don't really care, either. In your mind, this conversation's already done, been glossed over in your memory like a bad coat of paint.

You haven't asked a damn thing of him. "Say what?" you growl, not that you really give a damn. You've decided. You're going to forget all about him and cut him out of your heart, to neuter your feelings. You're not going to care anymore, not going to be bothered with it anymore, and you'll finally be happy. Normal.

Then you make the mistake of turning and looking into his eyes, and then his hands plant themselves on your cheeks, desperate, almost clawing like spiders. His eyes are wide, kind of scared, really, and as dark as you've ever seen them. "It's always been you, Liz. _Always_," he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. It takes your breath away, but you can't trust it. "I can't get over it. I told myself so many things, but none of them are true. I'm not over you," he mumbles, and then he starts to kiss your face. He presses his lips to your skin, over your cheekbones, along your jawline, on the tip of your nose. Lips brush over your brow and eyelids, gently over your temples, the bridge of your nose, closer and closer and closer still to your mouth.

But at the last second you turn away because you're not as spellbound as you thought you were. What you are is confused because he's pulling moves out of old playbooks you've never looked at, and you don't understand what he's after. But it feels like cheating, and you're not interested in that. "What's there to get over? Because I don't remember **ever** having a relationship with you. And since when did you have _feelings_?" you practically snarl, determined to stay grounded, to remember what really happened (and not his idealized version where he's the victim, and you're the cold one who walked away). You toss out "feelings" like it's a dirty word, and it kind of is because that was verboten, you remember, and he never said a damn thing to you about how he felt. Ever. You repaid the favor.

You're strangely lucid, but you're supposed to be drunk. "That's not fair, Liz." You don't buy it. That's all he says, and his voice is weak. But this time you push him away, hard. The bottle's not quite empty yet, so you tip it back and down what's left. It burns your throat like acid, and the fumes make you want to sneeze, but you swallow it like a pro and inhale like a drowning woman. You cock an eyebrow and look at him, and somehow you're still not drunk enough for this. What he did to you wasn't fair; this, this is truth and justice.

"I can't get my mind off you," he says, but he's dating someone else. So that's a lie. "You're all I think about," he says, but he ignored you for months afterward. So that's a lie too. "I can't stop," he says, and it almost rings true, only you don't know quite what he means. He only wants what he can't have, you think, and you don't want to be wanted for that reason. Wanting what you can't have sucks, and you want what you _can_ have. "I tried..." he says, trailing off because you both know he's going to try and blame you for this somehow.

He didn't try at all. _You_ tried and tried and tried until you couldn't anymore, and he doesn't know the first damn thing about it. "I just want..." he says, hesitating. His lips start to form "you", but he stops just short of saying it because he sees the volatile look in your eyes and knows you'll go ape on him if he does. There's a caged look in his, and you're quick to point out that he still isn't saying a damn thing about his feelings. "One more time," he finishes, looking a bit proud of himself for covering the slip. You slap him without thinking about it. He deserves it.

The giant "no" is unspoken, but it hangs in the air red and glowing like a stop light. Do not proceed from here. Stubborn boy that he is, and he is that boy still, he doesn't listen, of course. He moves closer, puts his hands on you, tries to corner you. "I want to taste you one more time," he drawls, coming close enough to kiss you, close enough to show that he intends to follow through on the threat. A part of you is a little intoxicated by his proximity because he hasn't been this close to you in a very, very long time. Funny how you didn't notice that earlier. You're not drunk on his presence or drunk enough not to remember your sister.

He lost that chance a long time ago, you think, but that's not what you tell him. You mean to sound as sure as you feel, but you sound weak instead of stubborn and defiant. You want to say that he wants a taste because forbidden fruit's supposedly the sweetest, but it'll just disappoint him once he's had that bite. Diminishing returns and all that grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side-junk. "You're drunk, and stupid... and not thinking clearly. This isn't what you want, and it never has been," you state in a voice that wobbles a bit too much, sounding uncertain. You forget to mention Casey, but you think the implication that she's what he really wanted all along is pretty obvious. You don't mention what you want because when has that ever mattered?

He shakes his head like he disagrees, and you start to say something, but he stops you dead in your tracks with his hands. They still know your body, every line and curve, even though you've changed. He still knows how to touch you. There's enough familiarity to drown in. His touch still makes you feel off-kilter, distracted... vulnerable, like you're seventeen again, only you're not. It stills you, freezes you, brings a change over you. He's déjà vu'd you. This is some kind of black magic, you think, some kind of power he has over you. His eyes are darker than earlier and earnest. "I've got to feel you in my bones again," he pleads, letting desperation overcome him. His hands are shaking; he can't even touch you properly.

And this time you know what he means. You remember the feeling, and you want that too, only more, deeper, so you can feel him resonating in the very marrow of your bones. But you're afraid of that, that it's too much, that once he's that far inside, under your skin, threaded through your muscles, penetrating the bone, saturating each and every cell... that he'll take over, and when this is done, and it will be soon... there'll be nothing left but a poison there that'll kill you slowly. And you won't be able to get rid of it, of him, because no washing, no scraping, no drugs, no surgery will be enough to remove this cancer.

Then he leans forward, into you, and he tries to kiss you again. You almost get caught up in it, but you pull back at the last second. Because it's wrong. Then you're shaking your head, and your whole being feels kind of shaky and weightless, uncertain. You're playing with your hands, and your hair keeps falling in your face. "I-I... I can't," you stutter, voice breaking. You know why not, your _sister_, but you can't remember Casey's name or that they're dating. There are reasons for yourself too, but it's so easy to forget those reasons when he's still so close. He doesn't seem to get it, so you're forced to repeat yourself in a stronger voice, "I just... _can't_."

"Why can't you?" he asks defiantly, grabbing your hands, stilling the incessant motion. You try to draw back your hands because there's this fire when he touches you, like touching a stove or a hot plate that makes your hand jump up and jerk away reflexively, but he doesn't let you. It's a prickly, bittersweet, sad feeling in your palms, uncomfortable, tingly, a kind of ache, as if the ache you've been feeling for a long time in your heart's spread to your hands.

"Because I'm not a traitor," you bite, moving too close to tell him. _And,_ you think, _because I've been fighting this too long with every __**last**__ breath in me, and I don't know what else to do._ There's nothing else to do, not really. He lurches forward before you can prepare yourself, and then his lips are on yours, and you kinda forget the rest of the world exists for a second. It's been so long, and it's better than you remembered, and this is nothing like that kiss under the mistletoe a month ago, not at all chaste, not like he's kissing his sister (which, ironically, seems to be his M.O.), not because he has to.

He kisses you deep, drinking you in like a drowning man, making the most of this single moment. Because he and you both know that this is all he's going to get. He eventually has to pull away because he's breathless, but you could've gone on for hours yet, and you kinda still wish he was still kissing you like _that_. You haven't been kissed like that in a long time. When he pulls back, you're frozen. You don't know what to do or what not to do. A part of you wants to slap him, but your fingers brush against your lips too.

And then he really says it. He takes advantage of the silence to push this on you. "I love you," he admits earnestly, looking at you with those damn eyes... and then, oh, _God_, you really don't know what to do. You don't really trust it, don't want to give into it, but his eyes are begging you... And he seems to sense that it's not enough for you, because why would it be? He looks down, and then he apologizes, "I'm sorry, Lizzie, when we were... together... I was obsessed, out of control. I didn't know what was happening to me, and it felt like I was losing my mind." It's more honest than either of you have been in quite some time, but it's hardly a flattering comparison. At least it's honest, though.

He grabs your hands, and this time he isn't afraid to stare you right in the face. "You were all I could think about, all I dreamed about, all I ever wanted. All I wanted was to get closer to you, to immerse myself, to bury myself, to drown myself in you. I couldn't get enough of you, and I wanted more, so, _so_ much more. And that absolutely terrified me," he murmurs, a dreamy look in his eyes. He looks ridiculously lovesick, and all of it makes your heart hurt. You find it incredibly hard to breathe when he's saying words like _those_ in _that_ voice, giving you _that_ look with _those_ eyes. And you can maybe kinda almost believe him.

"There's a reason why it came so naturally to us, Lizzie," he tells you softly, squeezing your hands in a way that makes your heart jump up into your throat like a hiccup. And he's right, damn it, because kissing him felt as natural as breathing. His stare is intense and resolute, determined, but you can't look away. His thumbs stroke the backs of your hands; his hands are warm and sweaty. Since when do you make him nervous?

"It's been building up for a while, and no matter how hard we try and fight it or ignore it, that tension's _always_ going to be there. And I think I've known... I think we've _both_ known, since the day we first met that this... it's inevitable, meant to be," he amends huskily, a strange intensity building in his words. Like the tension that's been crackling between you for years like flecks of lightning. And there's that word again: inevitability, haunting you. His eyes are whiskey-dark. "There's _something_ between us, Lizzie, something special, something rare, something that only comes along once in a lifetime, and we can't deny that. I don't believe in fate and destiny, but you're mine," he whispers so intently that you believe it and start to fall apart. The muscles fall cleanly away from your bones, and your resolve slowly crumbles into dust.

Because, damn, you're his destiny. You hadn't expected anything like that. Not anything like what he seems to be saying about inevitability and destiny and that once-in-a-lifetime feeling that sounds a whole lot like... something you can't even think about because it's a concept that's so far beyond you, and you don't know if you can believe it. But all his pretty words haven't dulled all of your senses, because you do remember _exactly_ what he was like back then, and he gave you no indications. None of that, of what he says he was feeling, ever showed through. Ever.

He was so blasé about it, so noncommunicative, so goddamn casual that it drove you crazy. He dated around and never showed any signs of being jealous when you dated other people. He never brought it up, never objected, never asked you for anything, never mentioned it, never classified it, never questioned it, never said goodbye, never said a word, in fact, never effing **acknowledged** it until this very night. Hell, it acted like it never happened for _years!_ And all of that has made you very, very, _very_ angry for a long time; you've stewed in this for years. You've been absolutely furious with him, silently seething about this for years.

"Why are you telling me this now? Why did you wait so long?" you demand in a voice that sounds far more sure than you are. You're glad for that little bit of protection, glad it prevents you from saying anything about that bombshell he just laid on you. You're afraid of what you might say, really.

Edwin looks chagrined, as well he should, but he doesn't back down. He shrugs and doesn't shy away from the answer. "Because I'm drunk. Because I'm a coward. Because I didn't think you'd be receptive. Because I have no good reason not to. Because I've wanted to do this for the better part of two years, and I should've done this a long, _long_ time ago," he says bluntly, leaning forward, coming closer. "Because right here, right now, I have nothing to stop me from telling you how I really feel. Because this way, neither of us can run away. And because I didn't think I'd get another chance," he replies gently, resting his forehead against yours. He doesn't look away from your eyes, doesn't really blink. "And maybe because it's the perfect moment, our moment."

It's all you can really do to blink here. He draws back from you, and then his hands are caressing your face, smoothing your hair, and he's gazing at you like you don't even know what. Something so romantic you can't stand it. "Do you know how long I've wanted this? How long I've waited for this? How many months, how many years I've imagined this very moment? How much I need you?" he asks breathlessly, and you _know_. You know because, deep down, you've been waiting for this quite a while too. "You're everything," he sighs, pressing kisses to the side of your face. It feels kind of like your heart's stopped beating, and it's a very surreal feeling because it's like death, as alien to you as that, but you haven't been this utterly _alive_ in your whole life.

His hands come down slowly, fingers spreading over the ripples of your throat as you swallow hard and across your neck and collarbone, stopping to rest on your shoulders. You don't do anything because you can't do anything. You're limp and motionless under his hands. "Please." His voice is ragged, begging you for a chance. You haven't been breathing for a while now, and your lungs burn for air, but your breath still catches at his next words. "Let me get lost in you," he pleads so sincerely that your walls are completely torn down, the two halves of you reunited like Berlin.

You give like a faulty lock, and it's like a cave-in, what's happened to you.

So this is inevitability. You try on the word, see how it feels, and it feels exactly like it should, better for having waited so long, urgent and necessary, a part of you now.

Maybe you ask him to say it again. You don't really remember because you're running on love and adrenaline and alcohol, and suddenly, he's all you see. You fall on him then like a blizzard, like the first snow of the year: heavy, wet, cold, delicate, washing everything white.

Initially, you go to say it too, but the understanding look in his eyes says you don't need to. He already knows. You wonder when that started, but you decide against saying it because it'll only incriminate you later, and you'd prefer not to give him something to use against you. Because this is going to end messily, and you know it. This way gives you plausible deniability.

Your lips attack his feverishly, and you're _all_ over him like he wanted, arms and legs hanging, holding, clinging. You touch him the way you never did before. Because he didn't let you, and maybe you didn't even let yourself. But now you do. Your hands skim his face, memorize his features: cheekbones, forehead, temples, cheeks, nose, eyes, chin, jaw, lips, even his five-o'clock shadow. Slim fingers trail down his neck and back, finding the knots of his spine, the lump of his throat, the sandpapery skin of his neck. You delicately trace his clavicle and the hollow in his throat, then your hands climb over the slopes of his shoulders and knead the tense muscle there, smoothing over his scapulae.

You dig your nails into his back to make your mark, and he tenses, jerking towards you. The clothes fly off, or maybe they're removed slowly, with care. You don't remember; you're too busy exploring. You're a bit passive at first because you haven't had the opportunity to observe him like this for a very long time indeed, and you're going to take advantage of it. You run your hands down his bare chest, feeling, squeezing, tickling, poking and prodding the soft flatness to make sure he's really there. If he sucks in a breath, your fingers can rub up against his ribs. You feel his muscles flex beneath your hands, watch the sinewy muscles tense and relax in sheer fascination. In a way, for you it's like an experiment because you've never done this before. You listen to the sound of his breathing: gasps, hisses, sighs, inhaling, exhaling, grunting, moaning a little.

And you find you kinda can't get enough. You're kissing any part of him you can see, and he shudders and tenses a little every time your lips touch his skin. It feels like static electricity, each of these brief touches, and all you want to do is connect the damn circuit. You take what you can, hold what you can reach, grab and feel and look. You stare in wonderment because you can't believe you're really here, much less that you're actually doing this. And then, it changes suddenly, into something very sexual.

Because you aren't two little kids playing Doctor, and you aren't experimenting this time. You both know _exactly_ what you're doing... or, at least, you _think_ you do. And it should, you think, because you've waited for this and wanted this so very, very long. You've never wanted somebody this bad in your entire life, and you try and tell him that, but you're incapable of articulation. Your toes curl, and your fingers tremble. Clothes still on, you start to thrust your hips against him, and he looks at you like he's never really seen you before until now.

He can't take much more of this physical conversation. It's too much for the both of you. You barely make it to the bed. And you're not really thinking too clearly, but maybe he peels you off of the couch and drags you to your bed. You don't really remember. One moment you were on the couch on top of him, playing with his hair. The next, you were on your bed, and he was sliding on top of you. And it feels nice, his skin on yours.

It's your first time. The first and only time, because despite what they all will think and say, it only happens that _one_ time. And it **hurts**, but not in that way. In that way, it doesn't hurt like they say, and you think it's worse that it doesn't hurt half as much as it should. Because what it really is is easy. It's giving in; it's rolling over; it's surrendering to something more powerful than yourself. And, damn, it feels good if you just go with it, despite this pain. It hurts because you're perfectly cognizant of what you're doing as you're doing it, and you know what this will do to Casey. Because it'll come out eventually, and she'll never forgive you.

Maybe you romanticize it a little, or maybe the drunken haze (but you weren't _that_ drunk, not really, not as much as you'd like to believe because even **you** know that's not an excuse) blurs the memories just right. It's not all roses and butterflies like they'd have you believe, not in reality. It's a little messy and a little sweaty, but you don't bleed or anything. And he's clumsy, like he's never done this before, even though, somewhere in the back of your mind, you're wondering just how many times he's done this with your sister (which makes you more than a little queasy). Your movements are jerky and awkward, really, and you're never quite in sync.

It's like you're strangers, almost, not like you're rediscovering each other. You can't find the right rhythm, and you're never wholly comfortable. The moment's eerily, disturbingly silent, and you mostly just lay there and stare at the ceiling, shifting your hips like gears while listening to your heavy breathing and the sheets rustling. Two don't become one like they say (and you both supposedly love each other, right, so you _should_, shouldn't you?). And it... it's an all-too brief moment. Maybe fifteen minutes. It's missing something, some of that heat, some of the frenzy... and _this_ is what you've been anticipating?

The sex is satisfactory, pretty good, yeah, not that you would really know. It's not quite as special as you thought it was, not quite as worth it as you'd thought. And you come, but not like you did back then, violently, passionately, drawn out, with your clothes on and his hands not even touching you. You don't really even feel closer to him now; you're still not as close to him as you were back then, even after this, this most intimate connection.

The whole time, he's more into it than you are, and maybe he's just deluding himself into thinking that this doesn't change anything or that there's nothing different about this time... but either way, he's wrong. You're practically silent except for the change in your breathing patterns, but he makes soft noises. He talks to you too, during, because he has this nervous habit of talking when he feels uncomfortable. He tells you how good you feel over and over, talks about how soft your skin and hair are, whispers against your skin how sweet you taste, and you can't deny that you enjoy it.

Maybe it's because you feel guilty, but deep down, you know why it's like this. There's a giant chasm separating the two of you, even when you're joined together like this, and that ravine bears your sister's name.

And some time afterwards, after he pulls out and away, turning his back on you, you roll onto your side, and you fall asleep. You cry softly and blame it on the alcohol, but it's all your fault. You've never felt more distant from him than you do now, but it's so effing nice not to have to sleep alone... to almost get what you've wanted... that you stay there. You don't kick him out, even though you know you should. Because, right now, right and wrong don't matter much.

You sleep fitfully, waking up often, disoriented, unable to be comfortable in any position in this bed of sin and iniquity, and isn't it fitting? At some point, he pulls you towards him, lays his arm heavily over your hip and across your waist. He snuggles up to you, and no matter how much you want to get away, you can't move. You're unsatisfied, and you don't really know why.

You leave him first thing the morning after, sick with the revelation that you just slept with your sister's boyfriend of over a year. That's when it really hits you, when the fog of sleep and alcohol clears, in the early periwinkle light of dawn. And the light hits you right in the eyes through your gauzy curtains, and you can't ignore it, can't pretend to be unconscious anymore. You can't bear to stay there a moment longer, to lay there contented and blissfully unaware, free from the guilt that winds around you and plagues you like a burial shroud, to _lie_ in the bed you made. Not when you **know** what you did. You're aware of the wrongness of it, ashamed of your nakedness and his closeness, that maddening nearness (so close at hand yet so far away), because you've tasted the forbidden fruit and now you've got the bittersweet, sickly-sweet knowledge of good and evil, and God has found you hiding in the fig bushes.

You feel _dirty_; you feel unclean, and the tangy smell of sweat and sex clings to your skin like a perfume you tried on and didn't like. It was good while it lasted, but those precious moments weren't worth this hell. It's hardly a fair trade when you wear this like the skin on your back. This will be with you _forever_.

You're a **slut**. And a homewrecker, a relationship-ruiner. You're the other woman, and she's your **sister**. Your sister. Isn't that supposed to mean something? But her being your sister and him being her boyfriend (and, for that matter, him being your _stepbrother_) didn't stop you. And you hate yourself for that.

Your stomach roils against you in disgust at your actions, and you can barely even look at him for a minute without wanting to throw up. So you don't even look at him. You shut your eyes and turn away. You want to look back at him, but you can't linger. Somehow, you think, that would make it so much worse.

Guilt is all that's on your mind, guilt and sin and hot red panic, and there is only one drive left in your body anymore. Your brain is screaming "leave, leave, leave!" like a drill sergeant, and so you roll out of bed and to your feet like a firefighter. You're good at this, can outrun a grown man any day of the week, every day of your life. He'll never catch up to you or overcome you because no one ever has. You've done this before and you can do it now, no matter how much your broken body cries out that it's tired, that you want to rest in peace (you **don't** deserve that), no matter how much something... your heart, you think... is telling you that you _can't_. You can.

Only even you can't stop love.

You don't have precious time to spare, and he could wake up at any moment, so you must be completely silent. You blindly, desperately pull on clothes, muscles tense and jerky, body uncomfortable, muscles sore, almost torn, in places you didn't even know you had muscles. You pick clothes that cover as much of your body as possible; you want to drown in them. You want the clothes to cover it all up: what happened here last night, his marks on your body, the change in your eyes. So you pull on clean underwear and this tent of a beige turtleneck that your roommate left behind and some old jeans that you think were once Derek's—either way they're not _his_. The sweater's itchy, and it scratches at some very sensitive skin, but you deserve the discomfort. Your jeans drag on the ground and chafe in awkward places, and they're stiff.

You leave like a thief in the night, casting off the thin sheets, slipping out from under him like a shadow. You're a ghost in the sheets; it's as if you weren't even there, but there he is, sprawled across your sheets, naked and all alone, still reaching for you and the now-cooling warm spot where your body was in his sleep.

You don't want to see what happens when he wakes up and realizes you're not there. You don't want to have to face him, knowing what you did. Something's changed. This is irreversible. You don't know what he does the rest of the day, and you tell yourself you don't care because _this_ event, the leaving, is more important than that. You're not sure if it's true or not, because, damn, you did a really bad thing, but you're curious nonetheless.

And you don't look back because you're not supposed to.

What you do is this: you get in your car and start driving. You try and fail not to cry. And then the tears rain down like a thunderstorm, and you're crying so hard you can barely breathe and can't hardly see. You can't think clearly, only know that you need to get the _hell_ away from here and fast. You don't care what happens, so long as you're not here any longer.

And it's so loud you can't ignore it, that screaming, vicious voice in your head that orders you around and tears you apart just as much as he ever did. That voice in your head telling you to run and get out and **never** come back to this place urges you on, urges you forward, tells you to _confess, confess, confess_ because she's your sister, and she loves you, and she'll forgive you. You know she will, but you can't ask that of her. Originally, you do mean to tell her. You've even got the little speech prepared in your head.

_Casey, I made a mistake_, you'd say, throwing yourself into her arms. _What I did was awful, and I totally understand if you don't want to see me again after I tell you, but you need to know..._ Cue dramatic pause, fighting back tears. You know you're in over your head here, and you want her to fix it for you, to braid your hair and feed you soup and tell you what to do. You even picture the worried look on her face and imagine how quickly it'd change if she knew. _Kick me out if you want. I know I deserve it, and I'm sorry, but I didn't know where else to go. I slept with Edwin last night, and I think—no, that's not right—I'm in love with him, and I'm so, __**so**__ sorry!_

You wonder if she'll be mad at you. You know you deserve that, but you're just as much a victim here as she is. And, comparatively, you got so very little out of it that it was hardly worth it at all. You try and pull yourself together a little bit, try to stop crying like a crazy woman (because the tears blur your vision so badly you wish your eyes had windshield wipers, and you've been driving like a drunkard). But no matter how much you clean yourself up, wiping away the tears, they just keep coming, even in your relative calm.

You half expect her to kick you out the minute you wind up on her doorstep, but she doesn't. She just opens up the door after you've been banging on it like a set of bongos for ten minutes, not quite pounding out your frustration, but hitting hard enough to leave dents in her front door. She looks so worried, too, once she sees you, that it kinda breaks your heart, the guilty irony of it. And for one single breathless moment, when she first lays eyes on you and just... _knows_... you're absolutely terrified that she sees through you like a glass of water. That she knows what you did, but then she invites you into her home without a thought, without pause, and only then can you relax (because she doesn't know _that_, at any rate).

And when you finally get there, you don't have the heart to do it (you look her dead in the eyes, and suddenly you can't do it, can't _kill_ that part of her that still believes in unicorns and rainbows and Prince Charming and happy endings), so you tell her a bunch of things that don't make sense, and she comforts you the best way she knows how. And you appreciate the gesture all the same, even if it doesn't make you feel better, only makes you feel worse.

You come to her afterwards because you don't know where else to go, and he isn't _here_, and you really can't go back home again. You're a horrible person because you've betrayed your older sister. You're a freaking cliché, and you deserve to be on one of those trashy daytime talk shows. You don't want to be alone because you can't even look at yourself in a mirror. You can't face yourself, can't gaze in it and see how much you've changed. You've been crying ever since you left, and you know you probably look exactly like you feel: collapsed, downtrodden, used, unclean, low, and a thousand other things you can't even quantify.

God only knows what you tell her. You're too (heart)broken to remember what you say, too terrified to tell her much of anything because you're afraid the words will just start pouring out of you like turning over a pitcher, and then you'd spill the whole sordid tale. So you babble and ramble and mumble mostly unintelligible words about a man and cry some more, and she tries to help you, but then you start to get a bit hysterical. And it gets so bad that you're hyperventilating, and Spacey's stupid paper bag isn't helping at all. Because you just _can't_ take it anymore, being so damn close to her.

She's trying to mother you, only she's not your mother, and she's the problem here. You feel smothered.

You run to her bathroom and throw up, completely disgusted with yourself. Because here you are, dirty and unworthy, crying to _her_ about _her_ boyfriend in the home _they_ share with _his_ sweat and _his_ filth and the smell of _him_ still on your skin, _his_ taste still on your tongue and lips and teeth. The remnants of the very act still inside you. You feel like the musky scent of sex clings to you, that anyone can smell it. And you know she sees the poorly concealed marks on your neck, that she correctly reads your discomfort and, on some level, with those seeing eyes of hers, knows just what you did last night. You feel just a bit better after vomiting, as if the hydrochloric acid has killed the evil inside you, bleached your sin white as snow, relieved your guilt, confessed you, and baptized you anew.

So you wipe your mouth and rinse it out, make your excuses, and leave. Casey's worried; she doesn't want you to go, tries to physically box you in, but no one corners you. She tries to barricade the door with her body, but you've always been the stronger one. No one's keeping you caged or chained. No one tries to control you. Not when you can break boards with your hands, bruise with your fists, kick doors down, and knock a man unconscious with just a finger. With one hefty shove, you push her aside and force the door open, throwing the full weight of your body into it. And you take off running.

You start driving somewhere else, certainly not home (no, **never** again, not if you can help it), just driving and driving until you get to the edge of the world, it seems. You stop when you stop, and you get out of the car and just scream at the top of your lungs in the woods. You don't cry anymore. And then you decide you've wasted enough time on this, and you start to drive back. Because it's got to be safe now. When you finally look at your phone, hours and hours later (maybe even days, but you don't remember because all that consumes you is your destination), as you pull into your parking lot, you find out he's called you over thirty times and completely filled up your voicemail box. You delete his messages one by one, every last one.

It hurts to hear his voice, but you force yourself to listen anyways. You need to know what kind of man he is. If he's sorry he did it. If he meant it or if he... just said it to get you in bed. You actually think that maybe it'd hurt a little less if he was just saying that to get you in bed, if only because then he'd be completely in the wrong, and the problem of your feelings would be so much less of an issue.

In the first message, he's frantic. "Lizzie, it's Edwin. I just... where are you? I woke up, and you were _gone_. No note, no nothing. I'm just really worried. **Please**, call me back!" In the second message, he's stopped assuming you just went out to get something, and he sounds even more anxious. "Liz, I don't know where you are, and I'm... I would _really_ like to know that, just to give me a little peace of mind... And I just... when are you coming back? Are you even coming back? And... if you're not, please call me."

By the next message, he's starting to get morose. He sounds confused, lost, almost, like the little boy he once was. "Lizzie, it's Edwin again... and I don't know what to do. You're not here, and I really think we need to talk about things. Because last night, it kind of changed everything... Do I stay? Do I go? What do you want me to do? I really would like to know what you want from me here. Call me, tell me what you want me to do." That one's a bit harder to stomach, and it makes you wonder what he decided to do.

With the next one, he sounds a bit more like himself, only his voice is just a bit strangled, and his attempts at humor feel forced fall flat. "Hey, it's me again. You know, the guy you left the morning after... and, well, it bothers me, not knowing where you are. And not just because I slept with you, and I'm kinda worried you left because I was bad in bed." He attempts and fails to laugh here. You smile faintly because he doesn't have to worry about that. "So, please, do me a favor and come back." Despite his attempts at levity, the earnest, begging tone shows through.

And he starts to get a bit angry by the next one. "Hi, Liz, it's Ed. Calling for the fifth time. And just... what the **hell**?Why did you leave? I thought last night we'd worked out some things, but you don't even want to stick around to face it." You flinch a little then, because he's right. "And we _need_ to talk about it, Liz. Don't think that you can just weasel your way out of it by ignoring me! So, for the love of God, woman, call me back!" You can hear the frustration, thick and heavy in his voice.

His next message is different, blunt, a bit brusque. "Look, I don't know what last night was for you, and I can't begin to ever know that. But I know what it meant for me. And it meant enough for me to be basically stalking you, calling you nonstop, not even expecting you to pick up." He's hostile at first; the implication hidden in his tone is that it meant more to him than it did to you. Which isn't true at all because you're the one that's been suffering with this all this time. He exhales and continues, suddenly more melancholy. "I meant what I said last night, you know. If _that's_ it, if that's the reason why you left. And I just want... you don't have to call me back right away, Liz. I can wait. I waited a long time for you... but just, think about it. Gimme a chance here."

You start crying again because you want to, but you can't. When he says he waited, you think he's sweet and a total liar at the same time. And you have your answer, and maybe it is the one you secretly wanted, but that doesn't make this any better, any easier.

In the next message, he just starts asking you questions because he can't really understand. "Did you run because you're scared? Did you get cold feet about just... diving into this like this? Do you feel like maybe we rushed into things and did it all wrong? Or because you feel guilty about what we did?" He trails off because he doesn't know what else to say, or maybe that one little mention's too much for him. At that point, you're not sure he'll keep calling. But he did.

Yes, you're scared, and yes, you'd say you've got reservations about pursuing anything with him but not for the reasons he thinks. Because you're not worried about losing the friendship that had already died a slow, drawn-out death years ago; on that level, as far as you're concerned, you've got nothing to lose. You don't feel like you rushed into things one bit. It amazes you, how remarkably free his comments are of _her_, how remarkably simple he makes this seem when it isn't at all.

His next message is short and to the point. "Lizzie, it's Ed. Again. Still here. Still waiting. Still in love with you. And you're still ignoring my calls, but I **still** think we need to talk about this." It's the first time he's said it since last night, and you still can't believe it. Still takes your breath away, damn it. He's more upset the next time around, turning to self-doubt. "Was it something I did? What'd I do? _Please_, Lizzie, tell me what I did wrong!" His voice is shaking.

He asks, but the both of you _know_ what he did wrong. You can't really decide which is worse: the way he botched things up with you, the unsatisfactory way he made things up to you, or the whole mess involving your sister. Either way, he can't fix this, not so quickly at least.

In his next message, he's resigned. "I don't know what you want from me, Lizzie. What more can I give you?" He asks it as if he's given you the world, and he hasn't.

_You. All of you_, you think. _You can stop dating my sister. You can make that choice for me, on your own_, you think. Because you shouldn't have to ask. "I can't stop thinking about you, Lizzie. No matter how hard I try, how hard I try to distract myself or do something else, you're all I can think about. I can't get you off of my mind... and I get it, okay? I'm taking the hint and leaving your place because, whatever, if you want me here, you've got my number, and it isn't like you can't give me a call. I know this... situation isn't the best, Liz, but I don't regret you and me for one minute. And, just, please, put an end to my suffering and call me back. I love you. I want to hear from you. Please, Lizzie, just call me." It's a strange mix, half romantic and half business, that ready-to-move-on spirit that got him in so much trouble.

He leaves dozens of other messages, but you don't remember those. They all sound the same to you now that words have lost all meaning. You fall asleep at some point somewhere, but you can't remember for the life of you. Somewhere in there, when you find a computer, you wind up emailing Derek, describing the whole incident in vague terms (because you can't be too specific because Derek isn't oblivious, and he already kinda _knows_), because you want his insight and because they're brothers, and he should be able to help you understand. When you read his reply, he's telling you that it isn't worth it, to give up and forget about this man who obviously treats you so poorly. But he doesn't have all the puzzle pieces like you do, so you find it a bit hard to comply with this wholly reasonable request.

When you email him back, you lie and pretend like it's a whole other boy you're talking about. You tell him he's wrong. You say it's not like that, and that he loves you, which is something you don't even believe is true about the one you've been weeping over, and all kinds of other nonsensical things because it feels nice to pretend. To pretend you love someone you can actually have, that loving someone else doesn't have to be a curse (when this one is, no getting around it). Even though you're pretty damn sure Derek knows exactly who you were really referring to, and that he can read between the lines just fine. _It's complicated,_ (yes, you actually **do** italicize it) you say, and _you couldn't possibly understand, Derek._ All kinds of little things like that trying to get him to butt out of this situation you inadvertently, ill-advisedly brought him into. After a couple more inquiries into your health, Big Brother takes the hint.

You drive home in a daze, scarcely aware of what you're doing. There's too much on your mind, and suddenly you're waking up at the wheel, driving down the highway with no idea of how you've gotten to this point. It's a terrifying feeling, being this out of control. You don't recognize yourself; it's like you're falling apart in front of your own eyes, and it worries you.

He's not there when you come back, and you're glad, flooded with this horrible relief. If he's not here, then you don't have to face this, don't have to make up your mind, don't betray your sister anymore. Yet you feel strangely empty.

And life goes on, despite your heartache, as it always has.

Nevertheless, the experience has changed you for the worst. You're always looking over your shoulder, expecting to see him, and disappointed every time you don't (you _hate_ the way he never decides to fight for you). As far as you know, **nothing** has changed with him and Casey, and that bothers you too, because when stuff happens between the two of you, his relationship with Casey is magically supposed to change. So, as a result, you mistrust men even more than before and hate them with a passion, him most of all. You don't want to go out or do anything, and you're constantly either upset or angry. You've got no appetite or desire to speak, and you don't feel even remotely attractive (and couldn't find the energy to care what you look like anyway).

Afterwards, you keep yourself cloistered in your dorm room, just about. For a month, give or take, you drop everything and only go out for classes, not even to eat. It's like you're afraid that you'll see one of their faces staring back at you in a crowd. Or maybe that all the strangers will look at you and know what you did. And maybe you stay in that accursedly small room because it's the last place _he_ was, the last place you saw him. Though his smell's long faded away, just like the heat from his body, and just like it's dulled in your memory, there are still stains on the sheets that prove his presence, once upon a time. You haven't changed the sheets since before. You wallow in it, the dust and the sweat and the filth and the feathers; it's your bed; you made it; and now, only now are you _laying_ in it.

You don't take his calls or return them. You refuse to listen to any more of his messages. You ignore Casey's calls too. You cut yourself off from your family, of _course_ your family, and then your friends too. You don't answer anyone's emails, nor do you send any. You're isolating yourself from the world, and you know it, but you just don't want to bother anymore. And maybe they're worried, but maybe you really don't care what happens to you at this point. Maybe you don't care about much of anything right now.

You're slowly becoming a ghost. You stop looking at yourself in the mirror, and your appearance suffers, but you don't care. You're distracted; it's hard to concentrate or do work or even do simple things like shower and clean. You can't eat, can't sleep, and you're a nervous wreck. When you do sleep, you have nightmares or dreams. You don't know what to call them because at times they're pleasant. You're reliving the happy memory, free of guilt, but then your dreams turn dark, twisted, and bloody, painful. You cry helplessly every night, and you hate yourself for that weakness because you don't know why you're crying, and you don't have a right or a reason.

And then, once you manage to slowly pull yourself out of it... once your head clears, and you're not so distracted... You change your sheets, clean them with bleach and starch, air out your room, dust, wipe down surfaces, and clean your bathroom with lots of heavy chemicals that are bad for the environment. So even that's gone, and you physically try to erase all traces of him by hiding it from sight (because you can't really bring yourself to throw it out). You start to sleep a little bit, and you begin to look after yourself again. You go out like a normal person and kinda _almost_ smile, sometimes.

But you still cry at night, and you still forget to eat. And, then, every single time you think about him, you feel the overwhelming urge to upchuck. You've felt this before, many times, but the difference is that this time you actually vomit. You throw up what little there is in your stomach until there's nothing left, and you're left gasping, dry-heaving, throat burning. You think, at first, that it's the result of your self-hatred, guilt, remorse, and disgust, but you never did that before, and if it was, you'd be ralphing all day. It's tied to your thoughts of him, so you think that maybe it's because you're disgusted with him, but then, no, that's not it either because you're not, not really.

And then it occurs to you that maybe you're literally **sick** of him, or maybe it just happens because it hurts that much to think about him, or maybe it still _is_ your guilt. Maybe you're even trying to condition yourself to get over him through negative reinforcement. There's a name for that, you know, and you learned it in Psych class, about how you don't like eating things after you've vomited them up, but you don't remember it. And, unfortunately, like alcohol, you don't think it works on _Edwin_.

You don't realize the real reason until later, half a month or so later. You're still puking at the mere thought of him, but you think nothing of it. You feel fine, or so you tell yourself, but you're not the same. You haven't been for a while.

It happens like this.

It's late at night, and you're in bed. You've been trying to sleep for hours, but you can't quite get comfortable, can't quite drift off. Your body's wired, like it knows something's about to go wrong. And it does. You jolt up in your bed, very much awake, when you feel a sharp, sharp pain in your abdomen.

And, whatever, yeah, you think it's menstrual cramps. Because that's happened before. Fact of life, nothing new, same area, and that's what you're thinking when you see the blood. Somehow, you don't quite know how, you manage to slip out of bed and get to your feet and stagger to the bathroom. It hurts so bad, and it's worse than you've ever felt, than you ever remember. You can literally feel it ripping away from your uterus, the tearing, and oh, it's _excruciating! _The kind of pain that makes you grit your teeth and close your eyes and turns your legs to jelly. You're hot, all of a sudden, and your hands scramble to feel your face, which is flushed, kind of swollen, greasy. You're sweating bullets, feeling weaker than ever, but you do what you can. You can hardly stand, and you want to do nothing more than lay down on the cool, tiled floor.

The pain's that bad.

Nevertheless, you force yourself to hobble to the shower. You look at the floor, and a thick, viscous trail of blood has followed you here, dark and glossy, shiny like rubies and garnets. And there's _so_ much blood that you think, you know, this cannot be right. It's _everywhere_. All you see is red. Clutching your side doesn't help. You want to make it stop, **need** to make it stop. So you press your fingers down hard, and maybe it hurts a bit more, but pressure's supposed to make the bleeding stop. It doesn't stop, though, not at all.

You think that maybe you should call someone because you're beginning to feel a bit woozy, so you stumble out of the bathtub and go back into your room to find your cellphone. Your fingers close around it, and for one very, very long second, you wonder who to call. Because who would care, right? Eventually, though, you call your neighbor, the one who's good in a crisis, the one who's experienced, the one who's older, and you walk slowly to the door and leave it unlocked for her. Then you damn near crawl back to the bathtub.

Practically the moment you climb over the edge and set your feet down inside, your knees give out on you. And maybe it's that the bottom of the tub's slick with your blood, and maybe you slipped... but maybe something's really, really, **really **wrong. You feel like you're going to pass out, and your ass and back hurt something awful, but nothing compares to the pain in your pelvis that won't go away. As you close your eyes and lean your head back against the wall's cold, hard tiles, it's all you feel; it _consumes_ you.

You're almost on your back, knees up, feet flat on the base of the tub, and it hurts **so** bad. Your breath comes out in sharp hisses between your teeth. There are waves and waves of pain, pain so intense that you can't even remember your own name. You taste iron, blood, in your mouth, but maybe you're just imagining that. You don't know what to do, but then your neighbor comes in. You thank God for that.

When she sees you, she lets out a soft, disbelieving gasp, as if she can't believe what she's seeing with her own eyes. You get that. You've always been so strong, and now she's seeing you here, broken by an unseen force. Elyse collects herself better than you have, though, because she's a hardened veteran, tougher than nails, and she's all business, but she dials 911 with trembling fingers. You can tell that, for whatever reason, this _gets_ to her. Then she comes towards you slowly, horrified, staring at all the blood and hesitantly touches your forehead. She feels the heat and then pulls her hand away quickly as if your skin's red-hot. You open your eyes weakly and maybe you say something. You don't remember.

You remember her running to get a glass of water for you, because that'll _really_ help, and then you raise your arms up behind your back and pull on the knob, or maybe you twist it. Either way, it releases the cold water of the shower and lets it rain down on you. And it's hard and cold, but it does feel kind of good, even as it pelts your skin. Your neighbor, Elyse, she comes back over and tilts your head back a little further, tries to get you to swallow the water, but most of it just trickles down your cheeks. She asks you what's wrong, you think, but you can't answer, even if you knew.

Eventually the paramedics get there, but by that time you feel like you're going to black out. You're surprised you're even awake, and soon enough, you drift in and out of it. They pick you up, lift you, put you on a stretcher, and carry you out. Maybe they're nice. Your neighbor follows, worried, flitting around like a fly, asking tons of questions, telling them what she knows. Elyse goes with you in the ambulance, holds your hand. It's kind of nice, you think.

Your hands are covered in blood, your blood. But there's so much that it can't be yours, not all yours... can it? You don't know why you or what happened, but you hear some of the things they say or shout. "Do you know what's wrong with her?" "Female, nineteen, abdominal pain consistent with..." "Excuse me, Miss, can you hear me?" "She's got a fever of 103." "It doesn't look... She's lost a lot of blood... is there anyone we can call? Any family?" "Hang in there!" "She's _hemorrhaging_!" You hear the worry, the panic, the fear in their voices and the beeping of the machines. You're so tired and lightheaded that you want to give into the darkness.

Because it's not true, what they say, about a tunnel of light. There is no light here. All there is is darkness, and you have to fight it. You don't know why, but you do, and so you don't give up. If you could run away from it, you would, but this time you can't because the shadows that want to drag you in keep coming closer, and you've got to stand and fight for all your worth because you _won't_ go quietly. You've never been one to pick the easy course, and this time is no exception. You fight it as long as you can, try to hold it back as long as you can. As hard as you can, until you **can't** anymore, and something inside of you gives (kinda the way it was with him, you think, because even you can only fight _so_ long), and then you fall into the darkness.

And then, hours later, you wake up in a hospital bed. And the whole room is so damn white, everything: the clothes you wear, the sheets wrapped around you, your bed, your pillows, the walls, the floor... everything, that it drives you a little crazy. Because all you remember is red and black: blood and darkness. You look down at your hands to see if there's any blood there anymore, but your hands are clean. Only you see the blood they've left under your nails, the redness of your skin, and you _know_. Surprisingly, your old roommate's by your bedside, waiting for you to wake up. It's odd, considering she's supposed to be in Spain, but when she sees your eyes are open, Sophie smiles widely and hugs you so tight you can scarcely breathe.

She tells you that Elyse didn't know who else to call because she didn't have your family's numbers. You listed her, your old roommate, as your emergency contact, and you long ago deleted all of your family members' phone numbers from your phone, despite how often they call. Your roommate doesn't have their numbers either because you try and avoid talking about them at all costs so no one will know what a family of freaks you come from. And you don't want to because it's uncomfortable. But just because you don't have their numbers doesn't mean you don't know each and every one by heart, even Marti's. And then she starts crying for seemingly no reason, and she breaks down, so you hug her because what else can you do? You just woke up, and you're still confused.

Sophie tells you with tears in her eyes, weeping, that you almost died. And that takes your breath away, hearing from her how close you came to death. Sophie tells you that you've been unconscious for days, like you've been in a coma or something really melodramatic like that. In between hiccups, she says that you almost bled out, that you would have were it not for pints and pints of blood, transfusions, oxygen. But then she looks away, like there's something more, something she knows but can't tell you. She knows what's wrong with you, and you want to know too, but you don't.

She says you're fine, but you know you're not, and maybe she isn't so sure either. Either way, she says, you're out of the woods because you've woken up, and then she excuses herself to call a nurse or a doctor, still wiping tears from her face. When the doctor comes in, he has this grim, humorless look on his face, and you know he's going to tell you something very, very bad. Your roommate's weeping quietly, and she can't look at you all of a sudden. "Miss McDonald, let me first say that you're quite a fighter," he begins, almost smiling. You nod dumbly, and he sobers immediately, changing tone completely. "I'm sorry to tell you this but... did you know?" Then he gives you a queer look, like he's expecting something from you, but you just shake your head.

You know nothing. You knew nothing. And then this very sorrowful, tragic look comes over his face, cold, and he braces himself with a breath. You can tell this is unpleasant for him and that he wishes he could pass it off to a nurse, but he can't. "I'm sure your friend's told you what happened... and I'm sorry for you, really, I am. You were..." He looks really uncomfortable here in the midst of this awkward pause, and then he swallows, and he's able to say it. "Pregnant." And that basically knocks the wind out of you because that wasn't what you were expecting at all.

You're told later that you gasp, but you don't react otherwise. You don't recollect that. All you remember is being hit by a shockwave. You're paralyzed, unable to believe what he's just told you. You should've known, maybe, but you didn't, and that makes it worse. This doctor, you think, has kind eyes, and that makes it a little better. At this point, he attempts to explain some technical details about what exactly went wrong. But you don't want details. You need the basic facts. Maybe you don't want to know exactly what happened to you.

He sighs and suddenly looks much older than he is, and he can't be that much older than you. He's practically an intern, but now he carries himself like an old man who doesn't know what to do. In that respect, you're kind of alike. "I'm sorry about the baby. There was nothing we could've done. The spontaneous abortion was already in process, almost complete, and we couldn't stop it. The fetus wasn't viable anyway... We couldn't save it. It was all we could do to save your life. I'm very sorry," he says apologetically, making an exit as quick as he can, unable to stay to watch the emotional carnage play out. It makes you think of another man who's always apologizing to you as of late, only this doctor did nothing. That's the difference.

It's the first time you've thought of Him since you've woken up, and isn't it effing fitting? And then you're choking a little bit because it finally hits you, and it hits you hard, like a goddamn nuclear bomb, like Hiroshima, that sudden, overwhelming loss. _It_, you think. _My child is an it. _You hate that. _**Was**__ an it,_ you correct sadly, choking back the beginnings of something. _The child I didn't even know I was carrying. His baby. I had a baby in me, and now I don't._ Your hand has found its way to your abdomen and rests there, rubbing the area, once full of life and now... empty, completely void.

And, oh, _God_. It was his baby. You were having _his_ baby, and now you're not. Now it's dead. And you know it's his because he was the only one. And so of course it died. A product of sin, of betrayal, of adultery, right, a fitting fate? Only it's not. Suddenly you're sobbing, and your roommate's crying too and wrapping her arms around you, but you don't feel any of it. Because your baby's gone, gone forever, and now you'll never get to know it or watch it grow up or see the person it was going to become.

You try and tell yourself you didn't want it. How could you? You didn't even know about it until it was gone. You're better off without it, you tell yourself. And what would you do with a child? It's not like you could raise it, much less on your own. And what would you have done? What would you have told him or the rest of your family? It's better off this way. For all of you. This way no one gets hurt. Only the poor, innocent little thing. But you don't mean it, don't mean any of that. Because you know immediately that you loved that little... embryo from the moment of its conception, mistake that it was. You loved it because you love _him_, and can you really divorce one from the other when the fetus was a product of that love?

"How far along was I?" you mumble when you can breathe. The shuddering breaths don't cease. Neither does the running of your nose, or the mostly quiet tears trickling down your cheeks.

She pulls away just enough to look at you pityingly and then says, "About six and a half weeks." She looks guilty because the doctor told her first. And that's it. The doctor told her first. You weren't even the first to know about your child, your only child. You should feel better about that. You should've known that, because that damn night, the only time... only couple of... only few times... was just about that long ago. You should feel better because it wasn't really a baby, not yet, not at all fully formed, not even sentient. It probably didn't feel a thing, probably didn't even have hands or fingers yet. It wasn't even a fetus yet. You never felt it move. But it had a heartbeat, and it was alive, and it was _yours_.

You know because you look all of this up later. You have to _know_. And even though you know, you're still not any more certain than you were before. Because you can't know, not really, not everything. You're just never going to know some things, like what it would've looked like. You're never going to know if it was going to be a boy or a girl. It feels like a part of you is missing, and no matter what, you can't get it back.

"About the father...?" Sophie asks hesitantly. You don't answer her because that's just what you do when it's too hard or you don't want to face it. After all, you've always been very good at keeping these kinds of things to yourself. That's how you wound up here in the first place, isn't it? Unhealthy obsessions and all. All you've got left to do is cry, and when Sophie asks you if you want your family, if she should contact them, you flat-out tell her no. You tell her she's your family, and she _is_ because she doesn't ask too many questions, and she alone was here when it counted. She lets you cry in her arms, and you leave the hospital the next day. Your roommate goes back, and your neighbor still looks at you funny every time she sees you.

But, other than that, it's like it never happened. You don't tell anyone else, especially not anyone from back home. You try to move on, but you can't really forget that, no matter how hard you try. And you're so damn sick of failing, of doing everything with this Herculean effort that never seems to get you anywhere, that you take it a step further and create a new life for yourself because it's all you can do to just start over and try to wipe the slate clean. You go back to what you were doing before, and you start dating that cute doctor from the hospital, even though he knows what happened to you, and it actually almost kinda works out for you.

But things don't quite go back to normal because everything's changed, and you feel less for it. You're fighting this change, unwilling to sink back down into that black hole of self-destructive behavior you were in before. You're slogging through the mud, sinking into the quicksand, and you're so damn tired and sore from fighting against that current of those forces stronger than yourself. But you won't let it overwhelm you, **won't—can't** give in again, not to the depression, not to temptation, not to the easier path, not to the loss, and certainly not to _him_.

So you claw and you beat and you bite and you gnash and you tear and you break and you push and pull away. You put one foot in front of the other because you can only go forward. There's no going back from here.

You _know_ what happened, and you carry it with you; you're not unwilling to face it; you relive it every day. But you're still deleting your sister's emails, still dodging phone calls even now when you're supposed to be back to good. Gradually, you try to reclaim your life, to normalize things once more. Call your dad once a week, send a letter home once a month filled with news and the knowledge that you're alive, email Derek about once every two weeks, keep on working towards what you had so, so tenuously before.

You've **got** to get a grip. And just as you start to, just as you begin to feel your fingers curling around the end of it... you're starting to get over it, really you are... Casey calls you, out of the blue, and you pick up for the first time in God only knows how long (because time has no meaning to you, and the weeks and months have flown by without your notice). She sounds surprised to hear your voice, and excited too, and maybe you think she's crying. Later you won't know if it's because of him or you, but at that moment, you think she's that happy to hear from you, and you start to feel a little bit good about it, even.

But Casey, she plows ahead like a tractor. She skimps on the small talk and cuts right to the chase, and it's unusually forthright of her, really. Without thinking, with a single sentence, she smashes through your defenses, through your facade of feeling fine. "Edwin and I have been together twenty months today!" Her words are precise, and they hit like a jackhammer hits concrete. Because she says it like people say their babies are x-and-such months old, and it's been three months since you lost yours (_his_). And it hurts, leaves you reeling, because you didn't even remember that until this very moment, and that's terribly sad. And of course, of freaking _course_, you had a miscarriage on their anniversary (probably **because** it was their anniversary).

You hate that word, "miscarriage." It makes you sound like a horse or some other kind of farm animal, like it's merely an unfortunate circumstance, an occupational hazard, instead of a private, personal tragedy. You know it's ridiculous to mourn this nameless, faceless, sexless, practically shapeless wisp of a child, but you can't help but start crying thinking about it, the poor little thing. Because it was yours (and _his_, your very traitorous mind adds). You try and be quiet about it. Because, after all, it's your cross to bear.

Casey doesn't hear you because she's always been remarkably self-absorbed, and maybe right now you are too because you couldn't care less about her stupid anniversary or the stupidly romantic present Edwin's got for her or their dumb dinner plans, and you think you're more than a little justified. Because he's more to you than he is to her, possibly than he will ever be to her. All her talking about it does is activate your upchuck reflex, and that makes you laugh bitterly and weep a little bit more. Because the last time you did that, you were pregnant.

And you've never kept anything from her, but you've kept this from her all semester, just like you kept it away from everyone, locked up tight within you. That makes you sick too. You two used to tell each other everything. But you know you're both different people now, not girls anymore, women. And for you, entering womanhood was a kind of involuntary death that you were kicking and hitting, trying to claw your way out of. It was a painful lesson, a hard fought battle lost.

And when the time comes for you to hang up, you're relieved. Because just the sound of her voice makes you feel guilty, and you can hear him in the background, laughing, you think, and damn if it doesn't make your insides turn to liquid all over again. You haven't been paying attention to her, and it feels like a wasted conversation, but you got through it, and that's all that counts.

You fool yourself into thinking that you can deal with them like you did before. That it's easy for you to lie like this, like it doesn't tear you up inside, keeping this very pregnant secret to yourself.

You have to tell yourself something, after all, something to get you through the summer. You tell yourself this is the worst you'll ever feel and you believe yourself. Because, after all, it's not like this thing with them or with you and him is ever going to go somewhere, right? It'll die out eventually, if your feelings don't first.

So you tell yourself, ignoring the fact that it's been years, and they haven't died yet. You don't want to think that these feelings are deathless.

Later it turns out it's not the worst phone call you ever get, that _this_ isn't the worst, but you don't know that then.

- Loren ;*


	4. Cheated Hearts

And now we have the wedding, where, basically, the entire events of At Last take place and are summed up. Excepting the last two parts of At Last. So don't be surprised (if you read At Last, that is... this fic can, however, stand alone... At Last just gives it more context) if you recognize some lines. Oh, and the conversation that Lizzie and Casey have on her wedding day, those couple extra lines were originally supposed to be in there... at least two of them, but I decided to edit them out and then brought them back. Also, interestingly, this section and the previous one are about the same length.

Again, I own nothing except plot, future plans, Isabel, and Liam. Although I'm not sure I even mention Isabel, and I think I've only thrown Liam's name in once, since she never goes home and sees her family in this story. But I don't even really own Liam since George and Nora had a boy anyways. And I do believe that's it. Enjoy.

* * *

The years pass. Three of them, in fact. They pass sluggishly, and you'd feel like a spectator if you weren't so damn busy. Casey graduates, top of her class, of course, and so does Derek, albeit barely. Derek's drafted into the NHL, and it's a big to-do. He winds up, to his chagrin, with the Canucks, but as much as he pretends to hate it, it gives him the time and money to put himself through film school. The family likes that he's still in Canada, and they all brag, especially your stepfather, who has turned his room into an effective shrine. It's funny, you think, your big-shot hockey star brother. You all get a laugh out of George.

Casey takes a few months off and gets an internship in Toronto at your father's old law firm to pass the time until law school. You suppose you can't blame her for wanting to spend a little more time with Edwin in their apartment, clinging to the illusion of a domestic life together. In her position, you very well might do the same, but you're **not **in her position, and you won't ever be. She calls you often then, crying about how hard it is to leave him behind, how much she wishes she could take off more time and be with him, whine, whine, whine... And you think, _who the hell is this woman? What has she done with my independent sister?_

And then you realize that it's _love_ that's done this to her, love that's changed her brain and body more than any type of lobotomy or plastic surgery could. And, as much as you hate to relive the past, you know you can't _ever_ tell her now because it would destroy her. She says she falls in love with him a little more every day, and you like to pretend that you're falling a little out of love with him every day (but you aren't... a pity, that).

To you, love is positively horrible. And worthless. You grow bitterer by the day.

You hate how she asks you to help her make these decisions because what the hell do you know about law schools? And you don't want to hear this! And you think that she maybe ought to consider that your life revolves around more than her stupid decisions. You don't want to advise her either way, because you know she'll just disagree with whatever you say, and it's a no-win situation.

Either way, Casey eventually realizes what she wants, knows what she needs to do. For her. She obviously talked to someone who wasn't you about it, thank God, and maybe she even talked to Edwin... So Casey goes to McGill for law school because of a thousand little reasons. She thinks a new city would be good for her, that she needs to be lonely, that she needs to be on her own, that distance could be a good test for her two-year strong relationship. Privately, you disagree, knowing Edwin's wandering eye as intimately as you do, but you can't say you aren't secretly glad that they're apart.

It is the right decision, even though it means three years alone in Montreal. Casey will come to realize that a big city full of people can be even more isolating than a tiny hamlet in the country. From what you hear, though, their long-distance relationship is going very well. Casey feels out of sorts in Montreal, but their relationship is stronger than ever that spring when he's stuck in Toronto. Then again, you don't know what Edwin is doing because you don't talk to him, and he's cheated on her in the past, so you can't rule it out. They see each other whenever they can, at least two weekends a month, and then for their breaks and the summer (you've stopped going home for holidays, staying with friends or going on vacations or volunteering, or, on rare occasions, visiting distant family). They call and email each other every day.

He doesn't quite avoid you, but you two don't talk very much over that first year and never like you did before. You're no longer honest with each other. He doesn't seek you out, though, and you're glad for it. Things are awkward, but not as bad as they'd be if he chased you. The fact that he doesn't says measures, but it doesn't make it any easier to forget.

And it's then, in that brief interval where he's on his own, that a very stupid decision is made on Edwin's part. He graduates a year before you do, in the spring, since he started a semester earlier. He decides to come to Queens to earn his M.B.A. He says it's because they have a good graduate school for business. It's true, but you can't help but be suspicious. You're suspicious, of course, because your first thought is that this has to do with you, but you're not self-centered enough to believe that. Especially when it seems like he's forgotten about you.

Casey is positively _thrilled_, absolutely thrilled that he's going to be living in Kingston too. You think she may quite possibly be the only person thrilled about this development. She wants you to keep an eye on him, and she doesn't take no for an answer, even as you try to tell her that you're the worst possible girl for the job. She expects you to look out for him, to take care of him, to take him under your wing and introduce him to your friends, to mother him, to make him feel at home. To remind him of her and to watch out for potential rivals (though you need look no further than a mirror). She's forgotten that she and Edwin first got together because they were all they had, because they were family, and you can't go down that road like she did, yet you can't help but notice the parallels.

Weakly, you agree to it. Weakly you say you will. You don't want to. You barely manage to convince her that you two shouldn't share an apartment, insisting firmly that you already have roommates and that there's no room for him. Realistically, you know that there's no way that you could survive it.

Edwin comes to Kingston. It's the first time he's set foot here since that fateful night, and you feel the precise moment he comes. You know it in your blood, like some kind of sixth sense for former lovers. It feels like someone's stepping over your grave, and you're not dead yet, no matter how it feels. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You see him now 'cause you have no choice. It doesn't mean you seek him out. You watch him from a distance to satisfy Casey's wishes. You can see him, and you think you're doing fine. Even if he looks at you differently, like he doesn't really understand you. He keeps looking at you like he wants to say something, but at the last moment he seems to think the better of it (and you're _relieved_). When you two are in a room together, there's always other people there to act as a buffer. You don't let yourself be alone with him. You're right to do so.

Over a year and you still don't trust yourself around him.

The next year, you graduate. You want to run from this town, to run from his presence, but you foolishly stay to work on your own Master's and do some research. You work so hard and so fast to finish the degree as soon as possible to get away from him. The degree's in Environmental Science, you think, but you hardly remember if it's that or Zoology as you push through the year at a fever pitch. It's discomfiting watching all your friends leave and knowing it's only you and him there, mostly.

They've been together three years now, him and Casey, three years when Edwin starts to act screwy.

You notice how he's dawdling a bit, taking his time, longer than he needs to get his degree, but you try to overlook it, try to hope that it doesn't mean what you think it does. It's that second year he spends in Kingston with you when things start to change. You're both on level ground for the first time in a while, and you can't help but get closer. Something draws you together, something you can't quite fight. Your growing closeness starts to smother you, sucks away some energy from you like a parasite.

He starts to say things to you, little things at first that leave you unsettled and make you wonder. Things that alarm you just a little. He acts looser and more comfortable around you, even comes on to you drunkenly sometimes... but you blame that on the alcohol.

He starts looking at you with that predatory gleam in his eyes again, like he's the cat and you're the mouse, and he's waiting for you to come out so he can pounce. You remember that stare, that waiting stare, from those periods before he made a move, and you know he's looking for a sign. You're not gonna give it to him. You learned, fortunately, much earlier, how to conceal your emotions. You try not to give anything away, to be unaffected, wearing that mask better than you ever have. You know he wants to seduce you, and you can't give in this time. You don't want to.

He speaks with you more frankly than before, tries to touch you more often, whenever he can. You don't let him, at least, not at first.

Then, one night, close to the third anniversary of that night, he's at your apartment, watching a movie, when you get home from whatever activity it was you were doing to get away from him. You do a lot of things lately without remembering what they are just to get out of the house and get him off your mind, and it only halfway works.

He's there like he should be there, like he belongs. But he doesn't, not really. He turns around, sees you, and smiles beatifically. He beckons for you to sit next to him, and, quite foolishly, you do. The lighting's dim, the sound of the movie's down low, and he turns to you. "I can't forget you," he whispers, edging closer to your lips with every word. You can feel his breath on your face, and you _almost_ let yourself get caught up in it. But you pull away at the last possible second, swiftly turning your head and jerking away from him guiltily.

You smooth your hair and clothes and try not to act flustered, and you tell him to get out. You tell him that he's mistaken, that you don't know what he's talking about. You tell him he should go call Casey pointedly. You move away from him and stand up and cross your arms over your chest, and your voice is cold but filled with silent, seething rage. You act like you've forgotten so well that maybe he thinks you have, that maybe he doesn't actually realize that you think about it every day. There is no question in your voice. It's a demand, and he does what you say. You don't watch him leave.

He apologizes the next day, and you believe him. Hastily, foolishly, you accept his apology because you don't want to hear him explain and repeat those sentiments you found so very offensive. Because it's still a touchy issue, still a wound better off left closed, like pierced ears that haven't seen earrings in a while. It's stupid of you to think that things could ever go back to usual, but you do, for a while (you already passed that point, **stupid**, and you can't go back, no matter how hard you try and pretend and fool yourself into thinking it's working).

He resorts to clichés the next night, ones you can easily dismiss, but you can't dismiss the feelings behind them. Not so easily this time because it's plain and clear that he wants something from you. You push him away, say that he's crazy, laugh at him, do anything you can to avoid showing that you're taking him seriously.

"You complete me." Which makes you scoff because everyone from Jerry McGuire to the Joker has said that one, and it's bogus. Maybe you are incomplete, but you lie and tell him nastily that he may be half a man, but you're _all_ woman, and you don't **need **him to make you whole. You hope your words blister.

"You mean so much to me," he tries, but it's the last bastion of a desperate man. The "please don't leave me" phrase. It makes you roll your eyes, and it's easy for you to say that he means nothing to you. Even if it's a lie. Because clearly you really do mean _nothing_ to him if he can't do this the right way. If he doesn't care or treat you like he respects you. If he thinks you'll just give in this time. 'Cause you won't. The fact that he thinks so little of you convinces you that you really do mean nothing to him, and it hurts to think so.

"You are the only one for me," he delivers dramatically. This comment is so disgusting, so utterly repulsive to you that you want to spit in his face or vomit on the dishonesty of it all. You laugh in his face, and your reply is instinctive and bitter and burning as hard liquor. "But I'm not the only one for _you_!" So you won't be his.

"I'm lost without you," he says, and it even rings sincere for a moment... before you remember that he's not adrift or on a deserted island and that he knows exactly where he is. But does he know who he's with? Must be hard with two of you because he loves her _and_ he loves you, right? You wonder jadedly just how that works, exactly. Besides, you inform him bitterly, you _found_ yourself in his absence. And, worst of all, it's true. You know who you are and what you're capable of and what you deserve in a way you didn't back then. When you were alone to deal with everything that happened to you, when you lost piece after piece of yourself because of him. You grew up and glued the pieces of yourself back together, but no matter how hard you try, you can't move past this. It's stuck to you like crazy glue.

His advances, even though you don't accept them, make you feel guilty nonetheless. You try and avoid him, but Edwin's impossible, especially when it comes to getting what he wants. And he's not getting you, period. He says he was drunk that night, that he didn't know what he was saying, but you didn't smell alcohol on his breath and know better.

You avoid him for maybe a day as that awful date draws nearer, but he's a persistent sonuvabitch when he wants to be, and you learned long ago that you can't stop him from doing anything. Not if he wants it bad enough. He shows up at your apartment one night, on your doorstep. You lock the door and pretend like you're not there, but somehow he knows that you are. Maybe it's that same sixth sense you have, the way you know whenever he enters the room, and you inhale sharply. He leaves that night but comes back the next and won't be roused.

He bangs on your door violently, throws his hands against it, begs for you to let him in. You don't, so he shouts louder, trying to embarrass you. You are embarrassed, but you aren't stupid enough to open that door you'd closed. Apparently it's not quite as closed as you thought. Apparently he _cares_ more than you thought, and, believe it, no one is more surprised than you. He pleads; he sings; he serenades; he whines; he moans; he complains. He hits the door some more, punches it but not hard enough. You hear his cries of pain and know he's hurt himself, and that makes you feel a pang of guilt, but you still can't let him in. Because ignoring him feels a lot less like complaisance than letting him in. That, you feel, would be worse because you know his intent. You know his purpose.

Edwin camps out there overnight. He never stops knocking, and it keeps you and your poor neighbors up all night. They loudly tell you they're filing a complaint, and you think that the last thing you need is to be kicked out of your sole refuge due to Edwin's stupidity and insistence. You wouldn't have been able to sleep anyways, though, knowing that he was out there on your doorstep, waiting up for you. So, finally, you give into your neighbors' pleas that next night and let him in, early in the evening, not late at night because you are _not_ a booty call and don't want him getting that mistaken impression.

You pity him at first because he looks like hell: dirty, rumpled, tired, hungry, angry, even a bit bloody, but not defeated. No, he's determined and stubborn as the rest of you.

Not one to mince words at so desperate a juncture, he opens with the biggest ones he can muster. No, not "I love you." He fails to realize the importance of the simple, and so you think he just wants to have sex with you, to be an adulterer for the physical. Because he hasn't really implicated the feelings. "You've got a part of me, Lizzie," he declares brashly. And this time it's true, so true it steals your breath away (because he's got a part of you too). "Forever," he further avows, taking your hand in his and placing it on his heart. Like feeling his heartbeat again is supposed to do something to yours (and damn if it does!).

It paralyzes you. You stand there in disbelief, trying and failing to process and put everything together. Your heart's beating faster, and his thumb's on your pulse point, so he _has _to notice! You falter then for just an instant, unsure of what to do...

He takes advantage of your moment of pause, of confusion... of astonishment, really... And he leans in and before you know it, his hands are on your face, and his lips almost brush against yours, barely a hair's breadth away. And before he can connect the circuit, you jerk backwards and slap him hard across the face, so hard that your hand still smarts. Because he doesn't take the blame for _anything, _doesn't say he made a mistake—either with you or with her—and that bothers you because you don't want to be stuck in limbo. He needs to choose.

So you slam the door in his face. This time you refuse to put up with his techniques and threaten to call the cops if he keeps harassing you. Your fingers on on the dial, waiting for an excuse, but he gives up and walks away, doing the smart thing. You're relieved (and, yet, oddly disappointed because his leaving means he doesn't really want you at all and that he's given up, but, you think bitterly, when has he _ever_ fought for you?), but it came at a price. Fighting so hard takes a damn lot out of you. You're bone-tired, so, so weary, sapped of even more energy. You can barely stand, so you press your back against the door, and then your legs give out from under you, and you slide down slowly.

Until you're on the floor, and it's suddenly very hard for you to breathe, like you're trying to inhale water. It's not quite a panic attack because you aren't that anxious, not then, not by nature, but it's close. You gasp in air, and while you're trying to breathe, the world mostly fades away. You realize twenty minutes later when your cheeks feel dry and salty that you've been crying. As much as you don't want to give in and cry some more, you can't stop yourself now that you know you're crying. It just gets worse until you're hyperventilating again.

You touch your lips and your hair and your face wistfully, remembering when he touched them, thinking of how he wants to touch them. But you won't let him. _Can't_ let him. Refuse to do so. You look at your hands, remember touching him with the one, and you look to see if they've changed. If you've changed. If anything has, really, but you find nothing. He has a part of you, and you feel its loss as acutely now as you did then, only worse because it feels like there's a hole where your heart should be, like that vacuum is turning to a black hole and is sucking in all of you, every little particle in from the inside out.

And you wrap your arms around your knees and bring them to your chest, and you bury your face in your knees to muffle your cries. And you don't feel better that he's gone, as awful as that is. You hate that he'll have that part of you with him forever, that he'll always have it because he took it from you... not just your virginity, either. Something worse. Your first love, your first affair, your first child, your first miscarriage... Your first everything.

You have a ritual too, every year, on the anniversary of that awful accident you had. That's what you call **it, **an accident, because the term is fitting in every sense of the word. You take a personal day to grieve for something you lost, something you never got to love or appreciate, something you didn't even know you had. You spend the day alone, all by yourself, forbidding yourself from contact with others. You turn your phone off and don't talk to anyone under any circumstances. You confine yourself mostly to your apartment, and you spend the day thinking about it, daydreaming almost, about what it might have been like, with your hand on your flat, conspicuously _empty_ belly.

And it's so much **worse** when you're on your period, a visual, physical, emotional reminder that you're not pregnant, because then you can't pretend you are. Tears trickle down your face silently, but you're past feeling them. The day begins like it did then, in the middle of the night in your bed. You can't sleep. You wrap your arms around yourself and rock yourself back and forth. You take out the mementos you have from that time, the sheets and bloody clothes (because that blood _never_ came out, no matter how hard you scrubbed) and hospital gown and papers. You hold them and touch them and remember. Because this is all you have.

And then, around midday, you go to the cemetery. You dress in all black: black bra, black panties, black shirt and pants or black dress, depending, black socks or tights, black boots, black hat, black sunglasses, black coat, black scarf. You have no grave to visit because the embryo was gone, dissolved, bled out of you, discarded and tossed aside, minuscule. You don't know what happened to it. You asked him, that doctor you dated, but he didn't know either. He gave you some scientific explanation and sympathy, but that didn't make you feel better. But there's a hill here, so you perch on it, between the willows, and you look down at Kingston and mourn your loss.

Your eyes flick between the hospital and the building that housed your old dorm room where it all happened. It's hard to believe it's been three years to the day. If you'd carried the baby to term (the thought alone makes you gasp back a sob), _it would be over two years old now._ You'd be dealing with the terrible twos instead of grad school blues. You have to say _it_ because you don't know if it was a boy or a girl. The baby itself didn't know either, and it was so small and so... **dead**... so fast. Before you even knew, before you could love it.

You stay there, in between the graves and trees, for hours in the afternoon, numb, and sometimes you sit down, hand pressed against your abdomen protectively, and just stare until the sun comes down. And then you walk back home and get out the bottle of liquor. You don't eat, never eat anything all day because you know you'd just puke it back up if you tried because all your thoughts inevitably go back to him and then the bloody mess of your life, and it's patently **sick**. You buy hard liquor for this because red wine doesn't incapacitate you or leave you feeling comfortably numb, and it doesn't burn going down to remind you you're _alive_ (for a reason, even though your baby isn't, and you don't know _why_) and that the only reason you can do this is because you're not pregnant. You like vodka most because it tastes like water.

But this year, this time, you've mistakenly bought the same crappy raspberry vodka you drank the time you got pregnant, and you hate yourself all the more for that, so you drink more and try and find a different bottle, but you don't, so you're stuck drinking memories.

And for some bizarre reason, there's a knock on your door, and of _course_ it's him, even though you made it more than clear last time that he was not welcome. He's visibly surprised when you open the door, but you're too drunk to know better. You've finished two-thirds of the handle by this point, and your good sense has mostly fled the building. At first you think you're imagining him, but you reach out and touch him, lose your balance a little, and he catches you.

And suddenly you're in his arms for the first time in a long time, and he smells the same as he did then, all those years ago. He feels the same too, solid and warm, but you're silent and wide-eyed and don't let on. He takes the bottle from your hands but doesn't drink. He pours it down the sink, attempts to take care of you, but then again, he never could, could he? You make it hard for him.

And you let yourself fall. Because all those memories come rushing back to you—kissing and tasting and rustling sheets and skin on skin contact and that rush—and your lips drunkenly crash into his. He's startled for a second but then he opens his mouth and returns the kiss hungrily, puts his hands on you, unafraid. His touch is electric and addicting, and it jolts you back to life. He tastes good, familiar, safe, not like the godawful raspberry vodka you taste on your own tongue. Kind of like apples and honey and black licorice—the ultimate forbidden fruit, and even now you know it.

You know you're sloppy, but, frankly, you don't give a damn. You're falling all over him. And it's like déjà vu all over again. It's all too easy to fall back into old patterns, to give into this. You stumble together, entwined, to the couch, where you collapse in a pile of limbs and lust. Hands fumble with clothes and he peels away some of your layers, and you feel naked, even though you're in a thin silk camisole with your skirt bunched up around your waist, panties still on.

You cross your arms over your chest, embarrassed, and he stops, pulls away, and looks at you. Just looks at you, very still and very silent. And then, very slowly, you let down your arms and hesitantly jerk forward like a rabbit and press your lips against his, fast and fleeting, for a hot second. He just looks stunned. And you take one of his hands and place it on your breast, and he's eager, but you want to wait and take this slow. He kisses your neck heatedly, insistently, and you practically offer it to him.

He tries to take more of your clothes off, but you shake your head too much and whisper softly, that, _no, he's not allowed._ You pry his hands away, push when he tries to go for it. You tell him in hushed, husky tones, murmur into his ear that _he can still touch you_, that he's got to do it through your clothes. Like in the old days. You tell him _that was better. That you liked it more._ You beg a little. _Please_, and then you draw out his name, long, like you did then, and he gives... So he does, but you don't touch him.

You lie there like a statue, unmoving, eyes fluttering open and closed. He touches you roughly then lightly, masterfully, through your clothes, and the fabric rubs against your sensitive skin causing the most pleasant and painful, uncomfortable sort of friction. You _**ache**_ for it, for him, though. He drags his fingers up and down, down and up, using the pads of his fingers and his joints and his nails and the flat underside his fingers. He jerks you around in circles, too, one side than the other, running his fingers across your clothes in a pattern, to the right rhythm this time, clockwise then counterclockwise, pushing down and up, speeding up only to slow down. You can't stay still anymore. You're shuddering and spasming, jerking up uncontrollably, thrusting involuntarily, letting him wind you up and let you down time and time again until the sexual frustration is so powerful, so _sweetly_ torturous, so built up that you can't help but to come so hard you see stars and cry out brokenly.

And the whole time, no matter how drunk you may be, you don't tell him you were pregnant. Because that's private, and he wasn't there for _any_ of it. You know you should, but why bother?

You open your eyes slowly, letting him help you through the aftershocks, moaning faintly, and maybe he's gotten off on it too. You don't know; you don't remember a lot of that awful night, but his eyes are dark with lust, and you realize then that this _must_ be a mistake, know what he wants and **can't** do it. But you don't remember why.

And, in a shaking voice, still vulnerable and weak from the combination of the liquor and the orgasm, you ask him to leave, thank him, give him a shy smile, lead him to the door because you can't be sure he'll leave on his own. You lean against the frame for support, crossing your arms over your chest, tugging at your skirt, and tell him to forget about it, that this only happened because you were drunk and vulnerable even though you know better. You don't remember what happens after that, only the door shutting and darkness. And the bitter tears of loss and regret that trickle down your cheeks before you fall asleep.

You know you didn't sleep with him, but that's all you really know.

And when you wake-up in the morning alone, with the worst hangover you've ever had, still significantly drunk, clothes rumpled and sweaty but also covered with a blanket on your couch, empty liquor bottle on the floor, you think you dreamed it all up, and maybe you did. _Was that real?_, you can't help but wonder.

Nonetheless, you put what may or may not have (or _did_) occur out of your mind, and he doesn't bother you about it, but then again, you redouble your efforts to avoid him and have him banned from your building, so that could have something to do with it. And you now feel twice as guilty because you've made the same mistake twice, kind of.

You tell yourself it was just because it was that particular anniversary, but even now, you can't be sure. You call it your way of grieving, a different way. You say you needed physical comfort. You tell yourself you didn't know what you were doing. You claim it was your way of getting closure. You cry that the two acts of death and life are so close, so fatally interrelated... You make excuse after excuse, but who's to tell if they're lies or truths? There's something about him that draws you to him despite everything. _It's that damn Inevitability again_, your gut reminds you painfully, bluntly.

And Casey doesn't tell you, but you always kinda knew, deep down, that this separation's been a lot harder on her than she admits. You know she's had her doubts. Who wouldn't, right? You notice that she mentions Noel a lot on the phone, and that she's happy talking about him, even though you know he's just a friend. But you can't help but remember just how well that worked out the first time around... But Casey's not like you, and _she_ wouldn't do that.

She's the one isolated in Montreal, while you and Edwin are together here and have each other (but not in _that_ way, no, never again). And you feel guilty for it because there's still this cloud of black secrecy hanging over something that's practically totally innocent now... and even you aren't that deep in denial because, hell, girl, even _you_ can't believe that. But it's not your fault, and telling Casey would be more cruel than taking this secret to your grave... which you fully intend to do (and almost **did**, come to think of it).

So you're not one to judge, and if your brain heads in that direction, as it tends to because you're her sister and you do _still_ know her, you cut off your thoughts midstream. Because, you remind yourself just meanly enough, Casey isn't _you_.

Nothing's happening, at any rate. But, you can't help but think, if anything was happening with Casey and Noel, you can't say you'd blame her. Maybe you would for a minute if Edwin was really broken up about it, but he's been coming on to you all semester, so he couldn't be that jealous... At the very least, it's an emotional affair, and why shouldn't she have one? It's no worse than the emotional (and only very slightly physical) affair you've been having with her boyfriend for _years_ now. After all, what do they say about about people in glass houses and stones? You wouldn't have the right, even if it were true.

You try your best to avoid him the rest of the year, but it doesn't quite work, and your parents are forcing you to come home for holidays now. You go home, but you cut out early for your dad's and to visit friends and don't exactly stick around for long stretches of time that isn't essential. When you spend the night there, you lock your door and barricade it so he can't force his way in. You avoid his looks and skirt his gaze. You exchange only the minimum amount of words with Edwin that you can say without it seeming like you're overtly avoiding him, the minimum required for matters of social nicety.

And even though your family is pushy, the type that needs to know everything about everything, they're preoccupied with everyone else, and you've never been so glad to be a middle child and slip through the cracks. They just think that university has changed you, that you've been so very stressed out for such a long time that you need to relax. You let them think this, play into it, even, so they don't learn the truth.

After graduation, you take a job with one of those shiny new green energy companies in Toronto, and you don't look back. You work your way up the ladder fairly quickly because you throw yourself into your work headlong. Ironically, it's both a trait Casey taught you and one that her actions encourage in you. You get to travel around the country and around the world, making recommendations, observing the status of the environment, testing factories and facilities to make sure they meet requirements. You fit right in, and everyone likes you. You're fighting for something other than survival for the first time in a long time, and it feels good to fight for the little guy, to fight a battle you feel like you can win. For once, you're not second-fiddle to Casey; you don't have to wear her hand-me-downs, and you're making a good salary, wearing fashionable clothes.

If she saw you now, she might say you've come into yourself. You'd just say that you've grown up.

There are men in your life, too, handsome men who like you and who know absolutely nothing about you. They don't make much of an effort to, either, but you don't care because they're empty, meaningless, briefly amusing relationships anyway, and they don't matter. That's the way you like it, not that you like it too much. They're just another way to pass the time. They wine you and dine you and say all the right things and buy you presents. The sex is even good, great, better, but it never works out because they're all the same and _boring_ and all wrong for you. Because, as much as you're loathe to admit it, a single thought never fails to cross your mind—they're not him. And _he's_ the only one who matters.

You know you should be living the dream, but it's a surprisingly empty life, despite the glamor, and you miss... being grounded. You miss having a family; your friends from university and coworkers seem to have supplanted them in your life.

You don't keep up with Edwin, but he caves into pressure and moves to Montreal to live with Casey. He's got some gig there too, research or an internship or some business he's starting up. You pretend like you don't care and don't ask when you talk to Casey on the phone. She doesn't notice that you and Edwin don't really talk anymore. She doesn't ask a lot of questions about you anymore, you notice, because you never talk about yourself. Maybe she knows you won't tell her anything and understands this change in your relationship... or maybe, maybe she just doesn't care.

You try to forget, to content yourself with what you have. It doesn't work quite so well as you wish.

You don't notice or actively track their relationship, so it takes you completely by surprise when you realize they've made progress. _That_ much progress.

When Casey calls you and tells you about the engagement, it breaks your heart completely. That heart with those feelings that you'd thought you'd forgotten shatters like a mirror. Seven years bad luck. It brings all the pain you've buried to the surface again. Things you buried under concrete that's cracked and crumbled and warped. When she first tells you, you can't _breathe._

Casey's breathless, too, breathless with happiness and enthusiasm. She gushes about how he proposed, how romantic it was, and you listen wistfully against your will to every word, let them sink in. You can't, however, pay attention to the words themselves because you know it'll hurt too much. And just hearing her voice with its loud, happy intonations, the hints of joyful tears, tears at your heart like it's a piece of construction paper. She's chattering your ear off, and every word tears your heart a little bit more. You're speechless for a good long moment, holding your breath, and you finally manage a strangled congratulations. And you tell her you've got to go because if you don't you're just going to hang up on her or drop the phone or something.

And, of course, before you do, she asks you to be Maid of Honor, and you're made of honor, right, so what can you do but say yes? Even if it effing kills you. You gasp when she asks, and you really don't know why you're surprised, because you're sisters and _supposed_ to be friends, not forever destined to be rivals. Over a stupid boy who just happens to be her... fiancé now, oh god... and your... _what, _exactly? You still don't know how to phrase it or if, even, after all this time, he's still anything to you. You don't have the right to call him anything other than your stepbrother now.

Not that you ever had the right to call him anything you want to call him.

Casey busies you with planning details, calling you at all hours, overanalyzing every little detail to death, and you try your best to keep busy so she doesn't have much time to bother you. You'd dodge her calls like usual, but you think Casey would flip out and murder you if you tried, so you avoid deliberately seeming to be anything less than enthusiastic. Casey's a bit of a pain about things as serious as this, and you just can't take her fastidiousness in this particular detail. You want to shirk your duties like ruined clothes.

Bizarrely, the engagement makes the two of you closer. This engagement drags you back into the fold, no matter how much you don't want it. You're forced to be your sister's best friend and confidante again in this time of need, but you have no idea why you and Edwin are suddenly talking again. It's awkward, but at the same time it isn't. For the first time in a long time, you're not all wound up just talking to him on the phone. You're no longer nervous hearing his voice, but maybe that's 'cause you think you have closure, and he's seemingly stopped endeavoring to make you uncomfortable. The feeling in your stomach, however, hasn't gone away. It's changed, churning instead because of your guilt, bitter and salty and revolting like stomach acid.

Despite that feeling, it's comfortable, comforting, even, to talk to him. It reminds you of old times, and you'd give anything to just go back to your family, to go back to the times when things were simple and you knew where you stood, and Edwin was just another effing **joke** to you!

You become friends again, carefully, wound up with him and Casey in plotting out this whole thing. Suddenly it's all three-way phone-calls that make you uncomfortable, mirroring the triangle you find yourself in against your will. And just when you start to think you can trust him again, he drunk-dials you and says something you'll never forget. "I can't escape you. You're in every breath I breathe, every beat of my heart, every drop of blood running through my veins. Every step I take, every move I make, you're _there_," he slurs, and, for a second, just for a second, you allow yourself to be touched by this.

Then you turn around and snap at him to shut the hell up and stop quoting songs by The Police, and you tell him not to drunk-dial you ever again. You say he doesn't know what he's talking about and that you don't believe him. And you hang up on him... but afterwards, you sink into bed, lips parted, dazed expression on your face, and you swoon softly. And promptly order yourself to forget all about it.

You don't, but he doesn't do it again. You wonder if he was even drunk, but you come to forget it (only not really because how can you forget something like that?).

Eventually, as the date grows nearer, Edwin becomes your brother again, only of course he's **not**, not really. You can see that he's committed himself to this course, that he's chosen Casey. Though you watch carefully, fearfully, even a little hopefully, for signs of cold feet and deliberation, you see none. It hurts to realize he made the choice, and it's not you, but you paint on that smile and continue wishing them all the best. And, in a way, you both act like nothing ever happened, so who's to say it ever did? Only you feel so conflicted and anxious and uncomfortable all of a sudden.

You stop waiting, allow yourself to quietly murder that little part of you that still believes, that still expects, that still has these fleeting dreams. You admit to yourself that the moment's passed, over, dead before arrival like the product of that brief affair, and you pride yourself on the way you handled it. With one exception, you've done everything right here.

He's just friendly now, and he's closer and closer to being your brother-in-law. And you're not happy. You haven't been for a very, very long time. You feel this more acutely every moment you see them together, smiling, laughing, at parties and cake-tastings and fittings. And your antipathy, your mixed feelings grow with the day. It gets harder and harder to bear, to watch. The resentment blossoms, and it gets harder and harder to suppress the envy you feel but don't show.

There's an inherent treachery in your every action as Maid of Honor because you know it's wrong. You don't deserve it; you shouldn't be doing this. It's effing twisted. You know. You're a traitor. Every atom of your being is **screaming** at you that this is wrong, that _you_ are wrong, that none of this should be happening, and it's impossible to silence the ceaseless buzzing that gives you migraine after migraine. So you pop aspirin and antacids and blame it on stress or friends or work or any excuse that isn't the truth when the awful truth is killing you. You're _sick _to do this, but you have no choice.

Because, see, you're perfectly, utterly aware that you don't want this wedding to take place, and you'd give anything to sabotage it, but you can't. Because she's your sister, and she thinks he's the love of her life, even if he's the love of yours too, and you're so freaking tired of Casey getting everything _you _ever wanted. You owe Casey this, a decent wedding. It's her first, and you can't ruin this for her. It helps to remind yourself that he loves her, _her_ and not you, no matter what he said, because he wouldn't have proposed if he didn't mean it. She deserves it, all of it, that perfect fairytale ending she's always dreamed of, even if it's with _your_ ugly stepbrother, because, in the end, she's a far better person than you will ever be. She would've never slept with your boyfriend.

You want this wedding to fail miserably. You wish it would just disappear. You want one of them to be left at the altar (and you hope it's him so that you can pick up the pieces because Casey is really _so_ very fickle), and you hate yourself for it. You think that maybe it'd be easier to deal with if you didn't know, if you weren't so involved in every aspect of it, if you didn't have to witness this... travesty (your own personal tragedy)... all up close and personal. That's really what kills you most of all, having to listen to your sister gush about him and plan out their wedding and order _you_ around to make it all happen. You hate that you're in charge of all of this, basically.

So you wait for the day with a kind of perverse curiosity as to how it's all going to turn out, and every day the dread and envy grow within you, insidious as ivy, slowly strangling you, draining the life out of you. The mistletoe, damn parasite, mocks you at Christmas parties, white berries winking at you, reminding you of times past, and then you see them kissing underneath and run to the bathroom to vomit up eggnog and sugar cookies. It reminds you of that Christmas and how he tasted. And you never feel more alone, more isolated, more distant, more separated from them than at Christmas when you're forced to see them up-close and personal and share the same space, breathe the same air.

There are a million points over the year they're engaged where you think you're going to **snap**. You certainly want to. You've had it up to here with Casey's demands by late May, and it hurts so bad you can barely get out of the bed in the morning, because, despite everything, their wedding has become a fixture in your daily life. Damn it, and you just want to tell her so she'll call the wedding off. But for some reason you can't do that. You're stuck playing the martyr to keep her happy because you don't know what he wants. Not really. You only think you do. But it's so hard to tell when he says one thing to one sister and another to the other sister, and it makes you feel like you're in The Other Boleyn Girl, only you don't know which Boleyn you are. You're reluctant to assign yourself either role because each seems of greater import than you are to him, but you think Mary, maybe.

Maybe, though, he's just gotten more subtle about it, because you feel hints of it, of that impropriety. Even if it's only there, underneath your skin. You can still feel it. You find yourself overanalyzing everything he says and does around you... and he's suddenly around all the time, mind you, because they've moved back to Toronto for Casey's career. And he gives you looks, and you don't know what to do. Desperate girl that you are, you slip a little, maybe, and you find yourself staring back in a way you haven't in a very long time.

Because you can feel it, that you're losing him _forever_, for good this time. And you're reaching out, trying to hold on, but you can't pull him back to you. You can't hold on to what was never yours to begin with, no matter how hard you try. There are so many damn reasons why this is wrong, but you **can't** stop. He's marrying your sister, for one, but you were there first.

She doesn't know. You know Derek knows from the way he looks at the two of you, but you don't know how he knows. He doesn't know for sure, though. He only suspects; it hasn't been confirmed. You see the suspicious, slanting look in his eyes, and you swallow hard whenever you spot it because you're so damn afraid he'll say something.

The wedding creeps ever closer, ever nearer, and the ceaseless ticking of the doomsday clock is making you start to lose your mind a little. So, when it comes to the rehearsal dinner, the night before the wedding, your nerves are completely frayed. Your hands are shaking a little, and you haven't been eating or sleeping properly, if at all, as of late. You can barely stomach the dinner, let alone seeing the two of them together. The perfect couple. Your resent them, and the resentment makes your stomach churn.

Derek catches one of your sideways glances and recognizes it for what it is. You're sitting next to him, incidentally. And you exchange looks, and then you start to drink a little too much because you just want to calm down. Later, you'd estimate that you drink enough liquor to knock out an elephant, but at the time, you throw back wine and whiskey like a pro. You want to be numb to all of this, to not feel any of it, to not know where you are or what's going to happen tomorrow. You already feel so empty, but all the liquor in the world won't fill you up or that empty hole there is that you feel in the middle of you. You tip back the glass time and time again, and then you're putting on a show, laughing and flirting with Derek, none-too-subtle.

And, always, always, _always_, casting glances at the happy couple, hating them a little more with every drink. But no matter how drunk you are, you don't show it. You start to come on to Derek, and, really, it's pathetic and more than a little ridiculous, and you know what everyone must think because you're almost making a scene here, but you don't give a damn about that. He's had more than a few drinks in him too, and he's too drunk to care that you're his sister anymore because all he really needs to know is that you're a girl and willing, and you look enough like her when he squints to do it for him.

It's so easy to put your hand on his thigh all casual-like, and squeeze a little, and then to just _slllllide_ it down until you find the right spot, and he groans just enough to let you know. He gives a little, not hard at all. And it feels good, kind of powerful really, to be in control like this. And of _Derek_, too. It proves he's just another man, and that kind of disappoints you.

You're in a bad way, they'd say, and you don't entirely know what you're doing or getting yourself into. And that's true, yeah, because you're halfway trashed and feeling up your stepbrother, the **wrong**one, under the table. And, even in the middle of the flirtation stage, you kinda know what's going to happen, what you want to happen, and that this is a huge mistake in the making. But you can't stop yourself. You want Edwin, and you can't have him, but here's Derek, charming and magnetic and available and flirting back, and you can finally kinda see what everyone else seems to see in him. You take his flirting to heart maybe a bit foolishly, but you don't mind, and he seems into it enough. And, for the first time in all the years you've known him, you get kind of a crush on him, get a little drunk on this.

And so what if his hair hangs down in his eyes and that it's kind of reddish and sort of flippy or that his eyes aren't the right color or wide enough or dark enough or that he isn't the right height or that he's a little meatier, more muscular? So what if it's not even really you he wants (it's pretty ironic and sad, and a little sick, actually, that every guy you wind up wanting wants _her_, but in this case you can live with it). He isn't Edwin, and you don't expect him to be, but they do look alike. Alike enough for this. Alike enough for you to pretend, to take what you can get. Because he reminds you of Edwin, only intenser, more wild, more authoritative, more angry, more mercurial. You lean into him, guide his hand up your leg, because he has that same dark, hungry, predatory testing look in his eyes that you remember, and their eyes _almost_ look the same, really, in this light, under these circumstances. That's what cements it for you.

Derek smirks at you, and you allow yourself to smirk back. You lean in to say something, too close, of course, giving Derek a perfect view down the dress Casey forced you into, and then suddenly notice that Edwin's glaring at the two of you blatantly. Then again, you aren't being subtle, and what he must think of you! Not that you care, because, really, he's marrying your sister tomorrow, so he doesn't even have the right... if he ever had the right at all. You flaunt it a little bit more, hike your skirt up a little more, two inches more, for Derek, and are rewarded by the sight of Edwin's jaw clenching in disapproval (_or maybe jealousy?_, you hope drunkenly). You offer a wicked, guilty smile, and you're not sorry, you really aren't.

The stagette party's right afterwards, of course, so you offer Derek a coy smile that's full of promise, and you leave with Casey, shaking your hips just a little bit extra for him. Because it's Casey and because she doesn't like getting drunk, let alone the night before her wedding, it's pretty tame. You didn't expect it to be exciting, but you've never been more bored except at her wedding shower and engagement party. She told you what to do and what to plan, but the party's briefly amusing when Emily brings in a few strapping strippers. Before Casey shoos them out because of her stupid scruples, and you hate her just a little bit more for it. At least, you think, the drinks are free and plentiful. You down Long Island Iced Teas and Cosmos and Bloody Marys one after the other, and then you do shots of tequila, and then you call for some jello shots, and you let yourself get damn near completely wasted, despite your high alcohol tolerance, because you know you're gonna need plausible deniability for this. For what comes next.

You cut out early, telling Casey you want to drown your sorrows in something a little warmer, and of course she doesn't get what you mean, (because why would you be sad or depressed?) but she lets you go. You head straight for Derek's room, and you knock on the door so loudly he can't ignore you. He opens the door immediately, and you come straight in, not really wasting time with many words. You kick the door shut behind you and kick off your heels, and then you kind of pounce on him. He's surprised for a second, but he knows how to play the game, and he does the opposite of resist.

His lips aren't quite full enough for you (you miss that about Edwin), but you make do. Derek will feel bad for this tomorrow because he still thinks of you as this sweet, vulnerable, breakable little girl who's in love with his brother. But you're **not** a little girl anymore, and you haven't been for a long time. You're a _woman_ now, and you show him that.

For the record, Derek does stop. You push your dress off your shoulders, let it drop to your waist, and shimmy out of it, letting it pool at your bare feet as you stand in front of him in nothing but your underwear, determined. And Derek's pulled away before this, but now he freezes completely. "You don't have to do this, Liz," he tells you reassuringly, almost like he doesn't want you to do this, but his pants tell you he wants you to do this. You shake your head stubbornly and start to lower your bra straps slowly, one by one, letting the seconds drag by. He swallows and laughs a little nervously, running a hand through his hair. "Actually, it'd probably be better if we didn't do this," he continues honestly, sounding more sober than he is.

Logically, you agree with that. He's right, but you're too drunk to want to say no. For some reason, that comment strikes a cord in you, ignites something, sets you off a little. And so you come forward suddenly, and then you're all up in his face, hands on his lower thighs, breasts jutting out, eyes locked. Your lip curls up in a bitter little smirk and you laugh caustically at him, throw your head back a little but don't break his gaze. "You think they don't do this? That they don't do this every night and pretend it isn't **wrong**?" you spit venomously. The look in his eyes matches yours, and you can tell he's thought about it too. You slide your hands up his thighs, move closer to his lips, tongue darting out to moisten your own lips. "So why shouldn't we, Derek?" you whisper, feeling his breath on your face.

And you tilt your head just a little towards him, infinitesimally, really, and he kisses your neck wetly, latches on to your pulse in a way that jolts you, stuns you (because, ultimately, you didn't _really_ think he'd do it). Your voice comes out in a husky moan. "I don't care. I want you," you say, eyes fluttering closed, and you mean it because it feels _so_ good, and he does it right. It surprises you that you mean it. A moment later his hands snake across your back, and he's pulling you into his lap and undoing your bra with a flick of his wrist.

You rip off his clothes with a force that neither of you expect, and it makes you giggle drunkenly and fall into him more still. There's something on the tip of your tongue here, something you want to say but don't, because somehow you thought there would be more talking, that you'd have to persuade him a little more. But you don't know what you want to say, but ultimately you say nothing much, nothing you can quite remember, at any rate.

And then there are no more clothes, nothing between you except your thoughts of what might've been and the specters of your sister and his brother. And suddenly, you're having sex with him, grinding down against him, shifting your hips back and forth then leaning back over him.

When you're having sex with Derek, it's about two things: revenge and glory. Because you're having sex with Derek effing Venturi, legend and bane of your sister's existence. And you know Edwin would be _furious _if he knew, always wondering whether or not he measured up to his infamous older brother. That thought alone makes you hotter than hell with desire. Casey surely wouldn't approve, and you think that maybe, just maybe, she'd secretly be just a little bit jealous, not that she'd ever admit it. It's about time that Casey was jealous of you, you've decided, because you've dealt with this poisonous green serpent with the glowing red eyes for your entire life, and it's been growing and eating away at you for the better part of seven years like a tapeworm from Hades.

Having sex with a living legend, the glorious high school pin-up boy dream of your former friends and classmates, of thousands of puck bunnies across the continent... is pretty damn amazing. It's an experience, doing it with The Derek Venturi. Oh, he's had plenty of experience, all right, and, moreover, you're dealing with a _man_ here, not a boy. And that's a nice change. He knows _exactly_ what he's doing and how to do it. He's all the things his brother isn't, and, in a bizarre way, you kind of appreciate that, that he's driven and athletic and focused on scoring this goal, so very much like you (**too** much like you, probably). That he's so supremely self-confident. His rough, skilled hands don't shake or sweat when he touches you. And, like any good big brother, he takes _care _of you.

And it's an intoxicating experience, no matter how drunk and uncoordinated you are. Because him lavishing all this attention on you makes you feel like a goddess. Having sex with him raises you up somehow, pulls you out of the grave you've been digging just enough so that you can breathe clean air. He rubs off on you, lets you feed off of his vital essence and energy, and he transfers to you some of that endless, preciously single-minded and self-interested ability to keep going, to soldier on stubbornly and stoically, because he sees just how _sapped_ you are of all marrow. He takes you higher and higher until you reach the summit, and then you're plummeting down so fast, hitting slope after slope, until you're back where you started, flat on your back and breathless. Yet you feel like you've _finally_ accomplished something, like being with Derek is somehow like climbing Everest, and in a way, it is.

The sex is a-ma-zing, better than good, and that crappy night you had with Edwin doesn't even compare. You can't describe this in words, and you don't really regret it because, damn it, you had a _good_ time. You've both poured all of your alcohol-fueled frustrations into this, all your long built-up pent-up resentment and fury and irritation and tension and stress about that godforsaken ceremony into this, so you give it all you've got. You go at it like animals, rough, unflinching, clawing and clenching, twisting and thrusting, wrenching and writhing, again and again, and screaming loud enough to wake up the whole hotel because you couldn't care less who's listening (and maybe you want them to, just a little). And it's hot and hard and angry and kind of painful, like torture it's so drawn out, and at some point you realize you're crying. Because it feels so bad and so good at the same time, and it hits you suddenly that you're both trying to hurt each other because you can't hurt **them**.

It's emotionally-empty, but it's not meaningless. You'd be lying if you said that, somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd never thought of Derek like that or found him attractive. You've wondered over the years. But you don't love him, not like _that_, and you know you won't do this again. This is a one-time thing, just something you had to get out of your system this once, a (sex) demon you have to exorcise.

Nonetheless, you don't think Edwin's just a paler shade of Derek, and you never have. The only difference is that you've always thought of Derek as your brother, your _real_ brother. Good sisters don't have sex with their brothers, but you stopped being a good sister a long while ago, when you fell in love with the other brother. You know you've crossed a line here, but the lines have been blurry for a long time with you, so you can't much bring yourself to care or lament the crossing of this final frontier.

You go into it, too, frustrated and horny, because you want his brother and can't have him. You come on to him because you're looking for a substitute, and he's the only option. You know, after sitting and talking with him, that he's the only one who can or will understand this. He knows you need this, this fix. Or else you'll go and do something stupid like trying to grab the real thing. Which has _never_ been yours, and, as of tomorrow, **never** will be and will permanently belong to your sister. So Derek kindly steps in to fill his brother's place, but you can't pretend like you wanted because it's a completely different experience. Derek doesn't pretend to be anyone but himself, after all, so it becomes more than that, something else entirely. And maybe you like it more because of that.

Surprisingly, you don't think of Edwin much the whole time, and though you know, on some level, you wish it was him touching you instead of Derek, you're fine with this.

But still, you know instinctively that the whole time his hands are on you, the whole time his lips are on yours, the whole time his body's on top of yours, the whole time (the thousands of times) he's thrusting inside of you desperately, like there's nothing he wants to do more in the world, like he'll die if he stops, not that he could stop, that he's thinking of _her_. You suppose you can't blame him. No matter how focused on the moment he is, he's like an automaton. He's mentally and emotionally absent, somehow removed from it. He knows what he's doing, but he doesn't want to think about why.

You know because of the tenseness of his muscles, the way he's never quite at ease and the hairs on the back of his neck are always standing up. You know because he's kept his eyes closed, _locks_ them that way, almost, and he hasn't really looked at you much. You can sense the whispers and moans he smothers, can hear the traces of her name in his cries. And, most telling of all, the way he just shuts down afterwards. He gives and gives and gives you all he can, until he can't give you any more because there's nothing left. You know because you do the same thing, only you realize what it means.

The thing that really gets you is how he falls asleep on top of you, spent and sweaty and still inside you. As if he can't bear to be away, can't let you leave. He's heavy, and his arms come down around you like a prison, pinning you there. Even in sleep, he must know what that means, trapping you like that (but, in a sweet and disturbing way, it's kind of comforting, and you felt far more trapped that torturous night you spent twisting in the midst of your death throes in the sheets with Edwin). Voila, here's the only man you can't run from, the one who's managed to physically restrain you. Too bad it's Derek, and not someone you actually want.

It's awkward, afterwards, and you're forced to stay the night, even though you don't want to. You don't sleep, or if you do, it's only minutes. You're too wired or drunk or full of self-loathing to shut down completely. You think to yourself that it was a mistake not to drink yourself entirely into oblivion, because you got yourself halfway there, and now you're stranded... and strangely alone. And you haven't forgotten about those damn nuptials that haunt your dreams. When dawn's rays light on your bare skin, you push Derek off of you in disgust and force your weary and sore, suddenly-much-older body out of the ice cold bed. Derek stays fast asleep, snoring, on his stomach and facing away from you. He still sleeps like the dead, and it makes a pained smile (because you've forgotten how) cross your face because at least _one_ thing has stayed the same.

You don't feel bad about leaving because you know if you didn't, Derek would, and this saves you both the awkward morning-after conversation. You tell yourself you were too drunk to remember, but that's not exactly true. You sobered up fast to pass it off as a proper drunken memory; you don't have that kind of good fortune. The last night is burned into the back of your eyelids, and it mixes with that one night you had with his brother whenever you close your eyes. You dress messily, quietly, and you pop some aspirin to knock your hangover into submission before you leave.

You don't bother to glance in the mirror because you know you wouldn't like what you see: the messy, unruly, greasy sex hair that hangs in your eyes, the smears and smudges of last night's make-up, the unpleasant way the rumpled and wrinkled (and maybe even torn? You think you remember Derek ripping it off of you) dress from the rehearsal dinner hangs on you. And then you start to think of the things you can't see... the insidious blemishes on your character, the stain of this guilt in your bones, the stale odor of sweat, liquor, and cigarettes, the bit of him still inside of you.

You straggle back into your room, slightly worse for the wear, and you shower, washing him off of you. You still feel dirty, but you can't really say you regret it. Because it was good in the worst way. You dress again, rather haphazardly, grab your purse, and gaze hard at your phone for a minute. You don't think Casey will call for another few hours, and there's something you have to do, but it's _her_ day, and you're her _slave_, so you take your phone anyway, just in case. You leave the room just as silently as you entered, and you go to the drugstore on a corner and buy that pill you've seen on TV because you were kind of careless last night, and you want to be certain that nothing will come of _that_ mistake.

The day of the wedding comes eventually. Because it has to. You can't avoid it. This, it's inevitable, and you can't fight the inevitable. It's a dark day that dawns for you, but you will make it through. You will hold firm. You will not forget yourself. You will stay standing, and you will survive. You will stand there and smile and watch this event take place, and you will try your best to be happy for them. This is your silent vow, the one you make in the mirror when you look acceptable enough (but you still have last night written all over you). He didn't leave any marks, but you kind of wish he did.

Then it's morning time, and you lose track of time doing mindless wedding stuff like a zombie. You don't see Derek or Edwin, and you're glad, 'cause even if they were around, you'd probably avoid both of them. You run around doing stuff for Casey a little like a chicken with its head cut off (and that's how you feel, really, like you should be dead but mysteriously you're still alive for a few extremely painful seconds, and every nerve in your neck is **screaming** at you). You know you're overcompensating, but it's not like the thought police are going to bust you, and you have to do _something_ or you'll quite possibly have a psychotic break here.

Then it's just before her wedding, a little more than two hours or so away, and the two of you are alone in her dressing room. Alone for the first time together all day (and this is deliberate on your part). And you're holding your breath and hating yourself more and more with each second for feeling this way, despising your ill will and your utter inability to be genuinely happy for her. You feel like you're subtly ruining this for her, secretly cursing the wedding like some kind of evil gypsy.

Your sister's less demanding than you expected, but not by much. It's more in what she doesn't say, the way she silently commands you. She puts you in a modest dress: pale, demure rose, floor-length, and stiff like bone. It's not wholly unfortunate, but it isn't what you'd have chosen. The back of the dress laces up like a corset and pushes your breasts up almost inappropriately, and Casey looks at you often enough with that speculative look to make you realize she notices that too, almost as if she worries you'll overshadow her. She tightly suggests a knit bolero, gauzy shawl, or solid wrap. You see where she's going, so you ask for long, loose sleeves, semi-transparent and easy to roll up.

Casey does your laces up, and she ties the back of the dress up too tight, so tight it hurts to breathe. The waist cuts into your natural waist unflatteringly, closes in on your ribs painfully, makes it difficult to move. You have to suck in breaths to be comfortable, hold it in so it fits properly. The dress is too big for you, not quite cut to flatter your figure. Maybe you've lost weight too, just like your sister, in these stressful and strenuous days leading up to the wedding, judging by the way the dress hangs on you, almost like a hanger. She's got your hair swimming in a fog of ozone-killing hairspray, down and back, curly. Your make-up's natural and minimal because why bother spending time on you? You couldn't be any less comfortable in the damn thing if you tried.

You catch a glimpse of the look on her face, and she's kind of angry at you. Her face is stiff, determined, concentrating hard on the task at hand, and that's Casey for you, stressed on her own wedding day even as she strives not to be. She's so pretty it hurts to look at her, and you _know_ you'll never look that beautiful (but then again, you don't think you'll ever get married either). But it hurts to look at her for other reasons, of course, knowing what's going to follow. You catch a flash of the bracelet, your bracelet, given unwillingly when she demanded it as her "something borrowed," glinting on her right wrist. Someone gave it to you, a male, but you don't remember who, and it's one of a set that you wear when you need a little extra strength, when you want to feel like Wonder Woman and deflect any attacks or bullets coming your way. Its mate is lonely on your left wrist, and isn't it fitting, Casey taking yet another one of your belongings on this day?

You look at yourself in her mirror, though, and you look just fine, halfway attractive, even: bland make-up expertly applied, hair curled and sprayed beyond recognition. There are no traces of the girl you are or were before on your face, and you can't even recognize your reflection. There are no remnants of last night on your face or in your eyes (because Derek was careful like that). Your face is soft, sweet, and submissive but oh-so blank. You look perfectly stable and sensible and serene, but under all that, you're steeling yourself for what is to come. Your skin is tight and bright, but a look of fake satisfaction and determined resignation has settled on your face that only you can see, like a mask for your disappointment and hurt feelings.

And, because you know your sister, you can sense the exact moment when she starts to freak out. You catch the look on her face and know what that frown means, and you jump into action automatically, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Because it bothers you a bit, her freaking out now, of all times. What does she have to worry about? She's a commitment girl marrying the man the both of you love, and she's been ready a long time. She knows what to expect, knows what's going to happen, and she knows what she's going to do. Unlike you, who is afraid that you'll do something stupid like scream out an objection when the reverend asks.

You were expecting something like this, admittedly, and you rush to her. "What's wrong, Casey?" you ask sympathetically, placing a hand on your sister's shoulder. She is, after all, still your sister, still your blood. She sighs heavily, staring at you in the mirror hauntingly.

She tells you, quite unexpectedly, that you look nice. It's all you can do to smile awkwardly, unaccustomed to the praise. You shrug it off, playing it cool, and watch for a sign of change in Casey's demeanor. Because, you think breathlessly, _maybe she knows_. Maybe Ed told her before the wedding so that they'd have no secrets. Your heart races, but her face doesn't change. Casey sighs, wrapping her arms around herself. "What if he doesn't really want _me, _Liz? What if we get married, and a few years down the line he decides he wants something else? I don't want him to resent me for tying him down, Lizzie," Casey wonders, voice trembling.

And Casey's vulnerable, and thank God she looks down because she just barely misses the look on your face, shaken, guilty, broken. Turns out you and Casey have the same fears, and maybe she's hit the nail on the head. You look tired now, tired and too thin, and you're unable to stop the wince at her questions, too consumed with the treachery consuming your heart or the jealousy clogging your mind or that _feeling_ in your stomach because you don't quite know what to expect. You're glad, for a change, that Casey doesn't notice people outside of herself.

You know you're supposed to tell her good things, but you don't want to, and that makes you feel like a petty child. You know what you want to say, but you can't be that cruel. And more than that, you know you don't want to be here, talking her through this, because, damn it, she's your big sister. It's not the other way around, and you're sick of always having to rescue the _Princess_. You're tired of saving everyone except yourself and making sure they all get their happy endings while you stay stagnant in your silent misery. But she's your sister nonetheless, and you know what she needs to hear. "He does, Casey. He wouldn't be marrying you if he didn't... I can't say whether or not he'll decide he wants something else, but sometimes, Casey, you just have to trust people. And he's not going to resent you. He loves you, and he knows what he's getting into by marrying you," you assure comfortingly, assuaging her fears as best as you can.

Your words are disingenuous, just a little, but fake it 'til you make it, right? Doesn't change the fact that you feel like a dirty whore as you pat your sister's bare shoulder. After all these years, you're a good actress, and you're able to conceal the bitterness in your voice. You hadn't wanted to say those things, those false benedictions, those half-lies, those awful truths, but you managed to choke them out nonetheless. You don't cry, though, and you consider that a small victory. Thank God for those, right, or what else would you have?

Casey looks up, head in her hands, and she looks so much like a small child that it pains you. It reminds you simultaneously of your child and of that child you lost. What if it was a girl? This thought steals the scant breath you have left. "What if I'm not _good _enough for him?" Casey inquires plaintively. For a moment, you want to strangle her because here you are, thinking about your **dead** baby, and your _too_-good, goody-two-shoes perfect big sister is whining about whether or not she's good enough for the man you love. You don't care if she has self-esteem issues, but she has no right to them, and she doesn't take time to think of how her idiotic lamentations make you feel. How worthless and not good enough or pretty enough or smart enough... how it makes you just want to give up and crawl into a hole because you'll never measure up.

But you slept with her boyfriend, so you deserve to feel this way, and it's her right. You try to take a breath, but, again, you can't breathe. "You're perfect, Casey," you state wearily, almost little sarcastically. There's that bitterness again that you barely manage to squash, but Casey doesn't notice. She's oblivious that way, and it drives you _crazy_. Sometimes, you think, it would be a whole helluva lot easier for you if Casey realized these obvious truths. You wish she knew just how effing _lucky_ she was.

She shakes her head and attempts to protest, but you're not having it. "You don't get it, Lizzie!" Casey protests melodramatically. You smile grimly; the problem, dear sister, is that you understand just perfectly, and she's described _your_ life, not hers. She then sits down, sinking into the chair gracefully, the same way she does everything, and she looks down at her hands almost shamefully, as if embarrassed, and you think she _should_ be because she's acting like a child and here you are sucking it up and being gracious and acting your ass off so she can have a decent wedding when, really, it's the second **worst** day of your life.

Casey looks up at you, mouth open, as if she's going to say something. Her cheeks are burning heatedly, and you know she only gets this way when she talks about sex, despite being a grown woman and a practicing lawyer. You prepare yourself for what she's about to say because it's all that's been on your mind for the entire duration of their relationship, and it's the **one** thing neither of them have told you, but you _know_ anyways, or you think you do. It's also the topic you've been dreading most, and, uncharacteristically, the pale, appalled look on your face shows it. The words she wants to say, though, don't come. She shakes her head instead and chickens out, more or less. "What if I'm not enough? What if he wants to try new things? I don't _want_ to have a husband who wakes up every morning regretting marrying me because he didn't have time to shop around!" She leaps up from her seat and starts pacing and wringing her hands; she's panicking like you've never seen her before.

You're struck dumb by the sight. You feel as if you can't stop her, can't comfort her, can't even slow her down because you can't slow yourself down or you'll fall apart. She reads the look on your face partially correctly to determine that you're confused. She sits back down and looks at you very, very seriously. She looks down, though, before she speaks 'cause she can't say it looking at you. "I mean... physically," Casey says quietly, playing with her hands. And the bottom drops out, _just_ like that, and you feel sick to your stomach. Because you think of what you did with Derek, what you _thought _she'd done with Edwin, and you're absolutely disgusted with yourself. Yet, at the same time you're dizzy, lightheaded, and flushed with relief, oh-so pleasantly surprised and secretly kind of thrilled to know that they haven't been together. So Casey had merited the white wedding dress after all.

In this _one_ way, but not for long, he isn't really Casey's, and she isn't really his. But he had sex with you, and the two of you don't really belong to each other either. Here it is, the one small (BIG) thing you have over Casey. It's a sick sense of satisfaction to know you have such an important power, this magical sex power, that she doesn't. For **once** in your life you have something over her, and you feel giddy and sick. That'll change soon enough, though, so you have to enjoy it while you have it.

Just to be sure, however, you question your sister carefully. "You two haven't...?" You trail off because she's still Casey, and saying the whole phrase would still be far too awkward, and you don't really want to think about it. She looks up at you, nervously, shyly, shaking her head no before glowering at you upon recognizing your skepticism.

She gives you this look that's absolutely outraged that you even thought that (but, well, why wouldn't you? After all, the guy screwed you, so why wouldn't you assume the same, only that he did it with someone he really loved? It's not _that_ ridiculous! But then again, this just reinforces how different you are: Casey the Virgin and the Wife, and you, the **whore**). You smile wryly but not painlessly, trying to bely how relieved you feel, how you feel a little less guilty but ten times dirtier.

You frown, though. She raises an eyebrow at you and asks you, flat out, "What about you?"

And you know she knows that you're not... that you haven't been anymore. Because she's not entirely daft and you came to her afterwards, but for one horrible second, you think she's asking if you and Edwin have... and you almost freaking pass out before you realize (or, rather, _pray_) that she's just talking about your virginity, or, rather, lack thereof. "Not for a long time, Case," you tell her jadedly, feeling much older than you are. She gives you this look, asking if it was worth it, and you half-lie and nod.

For one brief second, you think about telling her about the baby. But it's _her_ wedding day, and you don't want her to cry, and you've never told a living soul, never said the words out-loud, even though Sophie said you should and pushed you to. Pushed hard, so hard she reminded you of Casey. You don't want to ruin this for her by telling her about something that happened years and years ago, something you've practically forgotten. You forget sometimes just how much you love Casey, just how much you've sacrificed for her, because you resent her for it. Maybe she senses this, because she looks like she's waiting for something from you.

And then you realize she's still waiting for you to say something to make her feel better about that whole-not-sleeping-with-Edwin-yet thing, and you sigh a bit more exasperatedly than you would usually. You are, however, by all (okay, _almost_ all... there was that _one_ time) definitions of the word (or trying to be, at any rate, even if it **kills** you), a good sister, so you know your place. It is and has always been your job to smooth Casey's hair and calm her down and tell her it's all going to be okay. "He loves you, Casey, and you love him too. He's a good guy, Case, a smart one at that, and he knows what he's doing. He wouldn't marry you if wasn't what he wanted," you reply softly, not quite as honestly as you'd like to, hiding the fact that you're on the verge of hysteria here.

You press her hand and smile weakly, and Casey doesn't see right through you. You relax as the smile breaks on her face like a sunrise, and the peace spreads across her bright features. Casey turns to her vanity, adjusting her hair. "You're right, of course. You're always right, Liz," Casey says confidently, as if she is perfectly at ease. The smile on your face thins, and you nod. Casey's always right, even as she stares at herself with wide, disbelieving eyes. Like it hasn't really set in yet, what she's about to do.

A look passes across her face. Determination or worry or joy, you can't tell, but Casey rises to her feet suddenly and stumbles a little. You reach out to steady her. Because you can't let her fall, and your grip on her wrists tightens instinctively because you're bracing yourself too here. "I'm getting married today, Lizzie. I'm going to be his _wife_!"she whispers to you ecstatically. She jumps a little, starts to dance, twirl her skirts, and spin before she grabs you and foists a hug on you. She smells like a million-bucks, like classy perfume and designer wedding dresses and champagne and expensive jewelry—and all those other things a girl like you will never have. You're not smiling anymore; her exclamation is an unpleasant reminder to you, just another way of rubbing salt into the wound. "I can't believe it," Casey breathes, "It's like a fairytale come true."

It is only then that your eyes begin to water, threatening tears. At least it's a wedding, so there are plenty of reasons why you can be crying your eyes out. Fairytales always come true for girls like Casey, and you're no princess. Never have been, never will be, not even to your father. It doesn't seem fair that Princess Casey should get everything, or that everything she has is a case-study in perfection, but when has life ever been fair? So you're struggling just to get through another day... so what?

Then you pry yourself away from her because you can only stay there in her embrace and smell her perfume and make-up so long before you start crying, and you're smiling again, like a porcelain doll. And it hits you that this marriage is going to last until they die, because Casey doesn't wanna get divorced, and the smile falls a little flat. _Diamonds_, you think, staring at her ring,_ are forever, and so is this marriage._ The ring is hypnotic to be sure, shiny and twinkling in the most bewitching way that beckons you closer. You wish, for an instant, that it was on your finger.

But it's not, and that's that. And you know it never will be.

"Thanks, Lizzie," your sister murmurs happily, tears glinting in her eyes but not falling. She doesn't want to ruin that pretty face, after all. "You always know what to say. I couldn't have asked for a better baby sister," Casey replies gratefully. Your smile widens a bit, but it's still not genuine. Just this once, you wish you weren't the baby sister.

"No problem," you say then, like it's no big deal or anything, but this is really a very **big**problem, that whole being-in-love-with-the-groom-thing. "I'll see you in a few," you tell her shortly before practically running off to finish your last-minute wedding errands. It's your job to make sure the church is ready, that everything is just so, that everything meets up to her impeccably high standards. It's your job to check the flowers and the reception hall, your job to have a last-minute chat with the caterers and oversee the cake's arrival. Then you have to make sure that everyone looks good for pictures, that your little siblings haven't gotten food all over themselves, that Derek shows up, and that everyone is signing the guestbook. In a way, you're relieved you have all this work still to do. You shoot your sister one last, hesitant smile and leave to go do her work, but you don't congratulate her.

Then you come back, and everyone's in a flurry because time is tick-ticking away, and there's only fifteen minutes left. Emily's fussing over her appearance in the mirror; Marti's prancing around, giddy with excitement, and your mother is hovering over Casey, following the typical overemotional mother moment. "Oh, I'm losing my little girl!" your mother exclaims tearfully. You're standing in the corner, sulking, ignored as usual, as always, and _that_ makes you bristle. _You're_ her little girl, her baby, not Casey, but Casey's always been her favorite, no matter how much she tried to deny it, so you don't know why you're even annoyed. You simply just don't exist to your mother (or anyone, for that matter) anymore.

It's like you cease to exist when _she's_ in the room.

But, on a certain level, you are relieved. Relieved no one's looking at you now because you feel so freakin' transparent that they'd probably see right through you. And you're relieved because this day releases you from your enslavement to Casey's will and whims. After today, the only obligations you have to her is not to sleep with her husband and to pretend to be happy for them. But, all of a sudden, Casey remembers you exist and looks at you. Her voice startles you out of your reverie. "Liz, could you go check to see if my groom and his best man have arrived yet?"

She makes the pretense of asking, but it was really an order. They've been running late, Edwin and Derek, no doubt Derek's doing (and, admittedly, you and Casey are both somewhat worried that Derek won't show up at all and that _he'll_ be the one to ruin this wedding). The only difference between you and Casey in this respect is that you know the real reason Derek would want to ruin Casey's wedding. The Queen beckons for you to come closer, so you reluctantly go to her.

Then Casey leans over and whispers in your ear, "Can you give my groom a message for me?" You nod helplessly, throat suddenly very dry. Your tongue feels like a slug in your mouth. Casey smiles beatifically, and her eyes sparkle prettily. "Tell him this... I love you, and there's no place I'd rather be than here with you now. I can't wait to be your bride," Casey murmurs, a hand weighing down your shoulder. She doesn't hear your sharp intake of breath. A cold chill runs down your spine at the words, and your body almost breaks into a sweat of dread. You don't want to play messenger or intermediary here, but you have no choice.

So you leave the room, silent like a ghost, and march gloomily and briskly in search of him. It is a death march, you are well aware, and the look on your face is severe. But you must get through this one last thing. You search for a while, wandering aimlessly, trying to postpone the inevitable (but that's _never_ worked out for you, so why would it suffice now?). Eventually you witness him kissing his mother on the cheek, waiting with the rest of the wedding party. Derek's standing off to the side, on his right, and he gives you the traditional male nod of acknowledgment, a grim, ironic smile attached to those disdainful lips. You two exchange a brief, strained (awkward) look and both look down simultaneously.

You can feel everyone else staring at you awkwardly because they've never seen you like _this_, not quite so made-up, and they're not used to seeing much of you anyway. You wait there, awkwardly, uncomfortable, for Edwin to turn around. He looks good from behind, and you take in the sore sight of his back for a minute before stepping forward, clearing your throat, and approaching him carefully, like an animal you're afraid you're going to spook. He turns immediately to look at you and smiles broadly.

And your heart just about pounds out of your chest. You think it must be a **jackhammer** to beat like that, faster and faster, harder and harder, and you swallow. Hard. He looks just as perfect as Casey, standing there in that tux with that smile on his face. He hasn't smiled at you like that, so openly, so relaxed, in _years_, and it takes your breath away (both the smile and the surprise). He stares at you maybe a little too long, and it's then that you realize you've been silent too long. He's probably waiting for a reply, and that's why he keeps staring at you with that smile frozen on his face. You lick your lips and reach out, hesitating for a moment before you reach out the rest of the distance and take his arm. "Hey."

He looks down at where your hand is, and you're suddenly very conscious of its position in the crook of his elbow. And the strange looks you're doubtlessly receiving from the rest of the wedding party slash family. "Can I... can I talk to you for a second?" you ask anxiously, tugging him away from everyone else. This strange look crosses over his face, and you bite your lip, worrying about what he must think. "It's... important," you tell him, silently cursing yourself for basically stuttering. He nods then, and the two of you walk a short distance away from all those prying eyes.

You let go of his arm abruptly, crossing an arm over your middle protectively. It reminds you of a flicker of something, but you push that aside because this is. **Not**. _Your_. Day. You smile at him hesitantly. He stands a little more than a foot away from you, hands on his hips, staring at you expectantly. "I, um, have a message for you. From Casey," you begin uncomfortably, looking down. You don't want to look at him when you say this.

He nods at you encouragingly, motioning for you to go on. You can't help but notice between glances that his smile's fallen a bit. And you nod, and **God**, you've slept with him, so why is telling him something your sister, his soon-to-be-wife, said so damn _awkward_? You take a deep breath and know it's going to be hard to get this out. Because even when you and him were... whatever, something you don't need to think of on today of all days... you never said things like this to him. "She says..." You force yourself to look at him, because Casey will, no doubt, want to hear a point-by-point of his reaction to this sappy declaration. And here you pause a little too long and accidentally speak your own truth, words growing steadily more confident as you go on, "I _love_ you, and there's no place I'd rather be than here with you now. I can't _wait_ to be your bride."

You're playing with your hands and don't realize it until you've stopped talking. You were kind of breathless when you spoke, and you said the words in the same whisper Casey had, only even softer, so Edwin has to lean in a little to hear them. It gets harder to breathe, and your heart is beating so rapidly that you think you're going to have a heart-attack. Then Edwin grins at you lopsidedly, and his arms come around you unexpectedly, and he looks so damn _happy_ and hugs you so hard that you think you're going to die. You cough a little, and he starts talking animatedly with that spark in his eyes that you haven't seen for years.

And you know he's going to marry her because she makes him _that_ happy. End of story. Who wouldn't marry someone who made them that happy? He's saying something, trying to give you a message for Casey, but you don't hear it. You owe Edwin nothing, after all, so why listen to him gush about his endless love for your sister? You don't have to tell her what he says, so you just stare at him blankly and observe him for these last few moments you have with him before he becomes your brother-in-law.

You find yourself feeling thrilled and despondent that Casey hadn't asked you to kiss him for her. But people kiss the bride, not the groom. It's better in the long run, but... what you wanted has never mattered anyway. He thanks you, still smiling softly, and he kisses you on the cheek. It's the first skin contact you've had with him in months, and you close your eyes briefly to savor the feeling before you pull away, hard as nails again. You don't have time for pleasantries.

Casey's counting on you, so you push your adulterous thoughts aside and organize the wedding party (minus the bridesmaids) in the order they are to walk down the aisle before going off to fetch your mother. When you enter, your mother is kissing Casey softly on the cheek, adjusting her veil, and giving her last-minute wedding advice. You feel, for the first time, that you do not belong here, acutely aware of a sense that you've lost something here. You miss your mother. You feel bad about ruining their beautiful mother-daughter moment but clear your throat nonetheless and ask your mother to come with you.

The last thing you see before closing the door is Casey's reassuring smile. You pay little attention to the uninteresting pagentry of the wedding. Everyone walking down in the order you put them in, George getting confused over which side to sit on. This is mildly amusing to you for a second, and you manage a small, real smile at his antics.

Then the groom follows, and he turns and waves goodbye to you. And suddenly you're paying a lot of attention to the procession. He throws a casual smile and irreverent wink over his shoulder that _does_ something to you inside that reminds you of alcohol-fueled nights... and there's that _itch_ again. You watch him turn his back on you, open the door, and figuratively (but, unfortunately, **not** literally, given that he's literally unavoidable) walks out of your life. The door slams closed behind him, killing any foolish last vestiges of hope you may possess.

Then, as you and Derek wind up propping the doors open, you watch him emerge, beaming for Casey, until he stops walking and stands there at the altar, waiting for your all-too deserving sister to arrive. At this point, you can look on him no longer and tear him away from your sight. You go to fetch the bridesmaids, and your hands are shaking. You were reluctant to leave Casey, not wanting to see her married, but eventually you have to. She pushes you a little. You and Casey are the last out the door, and you're the last bridesmaid down the aisle, clutching the arm of your other stepbrother, the best man, with white knuckles. People will comment after the wedding that you marched down the aisle like a soldier, expressionless to the point of hostility, a kind of grimness to the pretty features. You don't care because you have to get through this, have to soldier through this day, and this is the face you have to wear to do it.

Derek knows better than to complain or comment because, here, he kind of sort of feels your pain. You don't really look at him because when you do, you remember last night, and it makes you burn a little. The both of you are a little stiffer than you would usually be in each other's company, but it's not as awkward as it should be. Probably because you're too preoccupied with keeping it together to care about what Derek's thinking, and Derek knows better than to bring that up now. He knows just how hard this is for you, and he's kept his mouth shut this long... you can't say how much you appreciate that or that he's holding you up right now when you need it the most.

Throughout the wedding you're conscious of very few things. One, that you're fidgeting, twitchy as a scared rabbit, and horribly uncomfortable. Two, that you desperately, _**desperately**_ want to say something, to shout NO to the heavens, to scream. Three, that you are in Hell. And four, that you can't do anything, not one damn thing. You _won't_, you **can't** do that to them. Your heart is fluttering like a caged bird that doesn't sing but merely flies around restlessly, crashing into the walls of its prison suicidally. But you manage, somehow, to stay in place nonetheless, no matter how much you'd like to start running, running, running and **never** stop, never look back, not until all of this is behind you and you can't see it anymore, and you can properly combust.

Admittedly, you're not paying much attention to the wedding itself. You don't want to. You don't even want to be here, but Casey made you, and she wanted you to be here, and you're not about to disappoint the two people in the world you love the most. You hear the words, but they're meaningless to you. You feel like you hear them through a seashell with the reassuring waves of the sea as a pleasant white noise, your own heartbeat back in your ear, drowning out the words you don't want to hear. Your heart's beating fast, and you're a nervous wreck, but you try not to show it. You thought you knewhow everything was going to go; you _know_ how it's all supposed to go, and you told yourself you could bear/take/handle it. But then again, as you wobble dangerously on your feet, maybe you can't.

On some level, you hear the pastor recite the vows, and you realize slowly (because it's hard just to _breathe_, and you feel like your head's been submerged in maple syrup and you're trying to get air somehow but you're choking on the stickiness of it all, drowning messily) that Edwin's messed up somehow. You hear his voice, hear it falter, and then you look over and see Casey and the reverend frowning. _He's frozen up_, you realize, and you think it's just nerves or that he's forgotten what to say. Then he closes his mouth and is silent, and you don't know what to make of that.

You're too far away to hear him the first time, when he says he can't do this, but you know something's wrong. You know it by the surprised, confused looks on the faces of Casey and the minister. You read the nervous, overly patient way she straightens up and leans forward, waiting, ever faithful. Then Edwin speaks up, shattering all your expectations and beliefs, both yours and hers. "I can't do this!" Edwin exclaims dramatically, loud enough for everyone to hear him clearly. Casey jumps a little, disbelieving as you are. _Oh my __**God**_, you think, not comprehending his meaning.

Then there come the loud, awfully audible gasps throughout the church, and it hits you. And it's a shock, like your head breaking the surface and greedily sucking in that first breath of air. A ridiculous clarity pierces you at that moment, but you still can't believe your ears. _That did __**not **__just happen_, you think breathlessly. Because, you've been taught, if something seems too good to be true, it usually is.

You think it's cold feet at first, when it registers, hitting you like a biting winter wind. That he'll just get over it, and that Casey will get the happy ending she deserves. You think that until he drops her hand suddenly. Her hand drops from his, falls like a lead weight, and you wonder that it doesn't hit the ground. You realize the moment Casey does what this means. Everyone knows. She lets out a soft cry of pain, and you see the blank look in her eyes, watch the horror and mortification mask her pretty features and blunt her beauty. Everyone else sees her perfect and put-together, but you, a trained eye, watch her fall apart, clutching her hand to her breast as if wounded.

You don't wonder why he's doing this, but you don't know why either. All you can do is think of your sister and what she must be going through, and how very unfair it is that even _she_ doesn't get to have a happy ending with him. And if things don't work out for Casey, what does that say about you? You're not watching Edwin, even though you have a better view of him. Your eyes are fixed firmly on your sister, muscles flexed and ready to go into action.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see a flash of tongue. He's licking his lips. The set of his shoulders shows that he's steeling himself to face her. You can just picture the selfish determination in his eyes. You wonder if he feels guilty for doing this, for ruining what should be the happiest day of your sister's life, but, then again, he never felt guilty for screwing you, so why would he feel guilty for jilting Casey? There's a shake of the head, unnecessary reinforcement that his decision is already made. He whips out the puppy-dog eyes, entreating her, and you hate him for it. "Casey, I can't marry you," he says plainly, quietly. His words carry over to you on the air conditioning, faintly.

Her eyes fill immediately with thick, heavy tears that she tries to hold back valiantly. You admire her for this small gesture, this small way of saving face in an impossible situation. And you would, of course, because you're a great stoic yourself. Poor Casey looks even worse, but she looks beautiful as ever while doing it, even while these painful emotions flicker across her face—confusion, anger, love, self-pity, embarrassment, loss, profound sadness. She looks like she's had all the wind knocked out of her, like a helpless child, and you start to go to her, but then Edwin drops a bomb that no one, least of all you, is quite prepared for.

And it's like effing Hiroshima, for all the destruction that one little unexpected statement causes.

He tells her why. And you hate him more than you ever did for it. You **hate** him for ruining your big, perfect sister. Wasn't one of you enough? Why weren't you enough to destroy? Why did he have to go for the Grand Prix here? He leans towards her a little bit (you can't believe he has the _nerve_, but he's always had a little too much nerve for his own good). And he tells her, quite urgently, a little too loud so that everyone in the silent church hears, "I'm in love with someone else." And you hear the passion in his voice and know it to be true instantaneously.

And, for a single moment, one brief moment, you're completely frozen. Because it's so far out of left field that you cannot even comprehend this, let alone really believe it. Casey, you know, has never been more humiliated in her life, and the tears that start to trickle down her (betrayed) face are a testament to that extreme mortification. That look, you think, was the very reason you never told her about any of it. You were afraid of seeing _that_ look on her face, and the timing was never right. She's completely numb, and so are you, because, on some level, it's a betrayal to you too. Because he isn't in love with Casey either.

She's speechless, as is everyone else in the church. You're all collectively holding your breath, unable to comprehend this sudden change of circumstances. Some people are glad, and some people feel bad for your sister. Some people are probably enjoying this. Some are probably feeling vindicated, that she deserved it for being with someone so much younger than her. And you know that the majority of people here really didn't like them together as a couple, which makes you feel horrible for your poor sister, because it means none of them, not even you, can really support her in this, her time of crisis.

Unbelievably, it gets worse. As, you've learned over time, life invariably does, just when you think it can't.

Because, just as Edwin finishes saying this terrible thing, he kind of reaches out in a flawed, foolish attempt to comfort your lovely sister. And then, when she rebuffs him, when she just stands there, crying silently, unseeingly, and he thinks everything is _just_ fine (and, God, what a damn _irony_ that is), he effing looks over at you. And, oh, hell, you _know_ what that godforsaken beseeching look is that he shoots you, and what it means, and you see the uncertainty written in his features, and, oh, _God_, even worse... the **hope** fluttering there, on his face, in those eyes flickering like crappy fluorescent lights.

And, damn it, you didn't want _this_.

Not now. You didn't want this to happen, as much as you did, as much as you longed to hear those words, you didn't want it to happen this way. At Casey's expense so publicly like this. But suddenly all this, responsibility for this terrible thing is thrust upon _you_, and there he is with that stupid lost little boy look on his face again, knocking on your door, which has been closed to him, off-limits, locked forever, along with your lips and your legs, for a very long time. And, damn it, this is not—**cannot**—be your fault.

The way he's looking at you, dear Lord, you'd think you'd faint if you weren't so afraid of what's going to happen next. You see a glimpse of that hungry wolf look in his eyes, and you swallow tremulously and look down, unable to hold his gaze. Your legs are shaky, your knees weak, and your hands are tingling in a way that is both tragic and magic. And it damn near smacks you in the face, this revelation that, oh, holy hell, he was talking about _you_. He's in love with _**you**__. Not her._ And you knew that the second he looked at you over her shoulder.

He never forgot that nonsense he told you all those years ago, apparently. But what a bastard to pick this very moment to do it. You feel suddenly very weak and very hot and _**sick**_, guilty all over. Because, oh, what if he thinks you were _encouraging_ him? Then the tears come, hot and thin little lines, down your dry and thirsty skin, so light you can scarcely feel them. And you do what you do best. You look behind you quickly, turning, and there's a door. And you're praying to God it's unlocked because suddenly you're dropping your flowers and running for it like there's no tomorrow and hoping no one notices because _what the hell are they going to think and what if she finds out and I can't stand this anymore, can't even breathe, need to get out—_and, praise the Lord, it does open under your frantic, fumbling fingers, and you find yourself in some anteroom.

And there's another door there, and another door after that, and you keep going through them until you're outside, and you can finally _breathe_. You suck in the air hungrily, desperately, but you're still out of breath, heart racing, a bead of sweat dropping down from your temple to mingle with the tears you've forgotten you're crying. And then you're standing no longer but running and running and running as far away as you can possibly get from that horrid place and those things you don't want to know.

You don't want to know what comes next, don't want or need to hear his excuses, don't want to hear what he invariably thinks he needs to say to you. You really don't.

You don't stop running until you're halfway across the city. You're sweaty and flushed and still crying and so very thirsty, throat completely dry, lips parched, legs jelloid. You damn near collapse on the pavement, but at least you can breathe again. "I'm sorry, Casey," you say quietly, looking up at the sky. You're sorry for a lot of things, least of all running out on her like this. But you don't need to be there, not when you're culpable in all this. Not when you know she'll find out soon if he doesn't tell her himself, the selfish bastard.

It feels as if you're at a crossroads now, and here you are, come between them, put in the one position you didn't want to be in. You're scared. You don't know what comes next. You really don't.

But despite this, your whole body is downright buzzing in anticipation. Because you know it in your bones, and they're vibrating. You know _something_ is finally going to happen today, and you have to be ready, have to catch your breath. You don't know what, but it's something, all right. You haven't felt like this in years, exhilarated, (guiltily) relieved, openly emotional, out-of-control... alive. Free. And it feels kinda good, even as you can feel the inevitability creeping upon your skin, pressing upon you. You feel it start to settle in and roost and puff out its chest proudly. Because no matter how much you run and you run, no matter how hard you fight, you can't get away from it. This.

- Loren ;*


	5. Fleeting Trust

And the rest of At Last is summed up in this chapter, with a bit more added for the necessary catharsis. So if you recognize some dialogue, you should. Again, I own nothing.

* * *

Then it's later, and he found you. Back where you were, there on the pavement. You ran because you were scared, and now you find yourself at their apartment—the one place you think he'd never look. You don't know _why_ you're here, actually.

Your things for the wedding are in your surprisingly bare hotel room (and, really, you don't even know why you stayed there. It isn't as if you don't have a swanky, barely-lived-in loft, but yet you stayed in this clinical hotel room for the wedding). But you think you've left some things here, having been to their place so much recently that you've become accustomed to crashing on the couch after helping Casey with wedding things. So you turn the key and feel like a traitor, like you have **no** right even stepping over the threshold, but you need to gather your things and make it look as if you were never here.

It's hours later now. They should be having the reception or, erm, whatever it is they're going to do about it. If it ever started, it should be just about done by now. After all, how much fun can people have on such a sad occasion? But then again, no one was really in Casey's corner here, so maybe they're just rejoicing in schadenfreude. Your phone's been ringing, ringing off the hook, which is funny because you thought you'd left your purse at the church. You now know better than to answer it. You don't even want to think about who could be calling you. You hope it'll ring itself into a quick, noisy death.

You answered it a while ago, breathless and still out of sorts, still running, unprepared for the onslaught of words, unthinking. Your mother had yelled at you on the phone. Because Casey's having a crisis and you're nowhere to be found, and, really, all of a sudden she decides to notice this? She demanded to know where you were, and you muttered something vague and quiet and said you were upset in your own way different from Casey's and needed time alone too. But of course _your_ needs don't matter here because you weren't ditched at the altar, so what on earth do you have to be upset about? As if being the reason for your sister's unhappiness and hearing him renew his addresses wasn't **traumatizing** enough!

Because it _is_ traumatizing to have everything you thought you knew suddenly upended in a moment. And the guilt chokes you tighter and tighter by the moment. So you're still breathless.

You find a plastic bag for groceries, and you start picking up your things and stuffing them inside methodically. And then, you whirl around because the door's opening, and there he is, standing in the doorway. He looks imposing there in the darkness, serious. His features are expressionless, or maybe the expression is dark, and he's wearing all black with one hand in his pocket, and the other hand resting on the door frame, splayed against it.

You want to say something, but he's staring at you like _that,_ dark eyes boring into you like corkscrews, and blocking your only viable means of exit, and you don't know what to do. When you see him, all the breath kind of whooshes out of your lungs. You don't want to say anything because, suddenly, you're hoping to **God** you're hallucinating. But then he steps forward, crosses that threshold (sans bride) and starts walking towards you. The first second you can't believe it, but then you take a step back, eyes widening in disbelief. "I-I'm just p-picking up some things I left here... I'll, uh, be getting out of your way then," you stammer, brandishing the bag in your arms like a shield. You try to manage a stiff smile, but it's too awkward to work properly.

And he takes a step towards you. You take a step back. 'Cause you're terrified, and damn if you don't know how this goes. But this time you're sober. This time you're old enough to know better and smart enough to say no. And you **know** that this isn't the right time for this, if there ever was or will be a right time for _this_. This is the worst possible time, and you can't let whatever he wants to happen happen. "Liz..." he says, pleading a little, holding out his arms to you. You don't trust it, don't trust him, so you back away.

You don't want him to corner you because you've never been the type of woman to let any man corner you... and you're very aware of your position and how precarious it's getting. You're not about to lose any more ground here. Not to him. He looks at you like he's surrendering, like he thinks you're the wild animal here, like he doesn't want you to attack him. But he's the one you're really worried about as he reaches out, gives you space but not enough to make you feel truly comfortable. "C'mon, Lizzie, you know what I want. You know what I need, what we _both_ need here. And there are some things we need to... discuss," he insinuates with a strangely serious tone in his voice. And you _hate_ him for it.

For speaking so calmly about all of this, like he didn't just leave your sister at the altar and break her heart. You hate him for sounding so sleazy, like he's making an indecent proposal to you already. You hate him for putting you in this position, for saying that like he's proposing a business deal to you. And you do hate that he's right, too, of course, but he's just saying what you already knew. You put your hands on your hips, bag dangling from your arm, and just stare him down, hoping to intimidate him, to make him go away.

It doesn't work, though, because he's always been a persistent sonuvabitch, and he doesn't let you fight the way you want to. So you take a faint step towards him, and you make your stand here. You can see the flicker of hope and some other, nameless emotion in his eyes, and you know what he must be thinking. You're not sorry he's getting the wrong impression; you're annoyed he assumes that you'd be that kind of girl. The kind who would even think about it now. "This conversation's been a long time coming, Edwin, and putting it off was the problem in the first place. We should've talked about this years ago that night you left, okay?" you proceed to tell him bluntly. "But we didn't."

For just a second, you wonder if he knows which night you're talking about. Because you're talking about that night all those years ago before he left for university. But even then, you think, you probably should've talked before that. You should've talked about what was going on between the two of you then, as it was happening, and you'll probably forever regret that you didn't. You've always felt that you missed an opportunity there, and, well, it's not something you can get back. But then again, maybe he thinks you're talking about _That_ Night, and maybe that's why he looks confused.

You stare him down unflinchingly, and your voice is stern and harsh like it needs to be, for your sister. "And I think, just this once, it can wait. We've survived all these years without it, and, after all, we've already waited so long... What's another year, another month, another hour?" you say slowly, taking care to enunciate each word. To you, waiting is easy. You cannot avoid this conversation with him, but you _can_ and **must** postpone it. Because you just aren't having this conversation with him today, of all days.

He, of course, doesn't want that. And why would he? Why would he make this one thing easy for you when nothing about your relationship, if you can call it that, has ever been easy for years now? He's made your life so very tortuously difficult. He's never made it easy for you, except that brief conflicted period where you were fooling around like teenagers without impunity. It all went downhill from there, you think. If only you'd had closure then. "This has waited long enough, Lizzie. I almost got **married** today! That's how far I let this go!" he insists, stalking towards you.

Oh, he's alarming you all right, but you try not to let it show. You don't need him to tell you what he almost did today, because the finality of it all still makes you breathless. You feel kinda like he's trying to pin something on you here, but you're almost blameless. Almost, except for those few times, you've done truly admirably. You didn't ask him to date Casey. Or not date Casey. You didn't even ask him to be with you. You didn't ask him to love you. You didn't ask him to take things this far. You tried to stay out of things. You didn't ask him for a damn thing. "Yes, Edwin. _You_ almost got married. _You're_ the one who let it go that far. You're the one who screwed up here. You don't get to blame any of this on me!" you shout back at him, flinging angry hands in the air, hoping to drive him away.

He's still not taking responsibility for his own actions, and that bothers you immensely. He looks at you when you say this like you hit him, and then he half turns his body away and runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "I'm not-" he begins, stopping to let out a frustrated huff before turning back to face you. "I'm just saying, Liz... _You're_ the reason why I couldn't do it. And you and I both know that that means something," he states bluntly, so much so that you wince at his tone. It sounds crude to you. You don't like hearing that you're the reason. You don't want to be his reason. Not for this.

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head at him. And maybe some of the pent-up anger comes out, because your eyes flash like blue lightning, you're sure (given the dazzled look on his face), and you whirl on him. "You know what it means, Ed? It means you finally chose between me and Casey. And you made the **wrong** choice," you spit at him ferociously. That's not quite what you mean, but you're furious with him for leading her on and misleading the both of you. And it's just so damn annoying to you that he chooses now, of all times, to pick you, when you'd been ready and almost prepared to see him your sister's forever. This inconsistency grates at you because he'd never given you a legitimate reason to think he'd ever pick you.

He's not as good at hiding his emotions as his brother, and you can see the hurt blooming on his features. It feels a little like vindication, but it's not good _enough_, doesn't even begin to make up for all those years you've suffered in silence. He gives you this very betrayed look, which is rather horribly ironic, you think, cocking his head like a confused spaniel. "How can you say that?" he breathes, moving closer, reaching for you.

You take a half step back hastily, evading his grasp. It's fairly easy for you to say what you think is true. You want him to feel a little of what Casey must be feeling now, want him to know what it's felt like all these pained years, want him to burn for this just a little. In that moment, you realize you've made your decision. You're going to lie to him. "Casey _loves_ you, and you say you chose me. Me, Lizzie, who's not even an option. Did I _ever_ say I loved you... or give you reason to think I did? Did I _ever_ ask you to choose?" you ask relentlessly, pointedly, leaning toward him, practically shouting in his face.

He fumbles because you have him there, mumbles that, "Well, no... but I knew... there was this look..." Or some drivel like that, and, true as it is, you have to cut him off at the knees. Because he just might be on to something here, and you can't let that happen.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, cock your head at just an angle to give him an arch look. Your lips are tart and unsmiling. "What, did you expect me to jump for joy here, Ed? My sister is miserable, and you're telling me it's my fault... There's nothing here for you. I don't love you, and I never did. So either accept that you just made the biggest _mistake_ of your life or find Casey and beg her to give your sorry ass a second chance before she finds out why you did what you did," you snap at him icily, lying through your teeth, of course. You don't say that having sex with him was the biggest mistake of your life (which, of course, it is), but you like to think it's implied. He freezes, and your words crash over him like a hunk of ice. Your eyes are cutting him down, sharp like knives.

The one thing you're not lying about is that you honest-to-God think Casey will find out. Yeah, you know she has to eventually, but you've been watching Derek just like he's been watching you. And he isn't blind, hasn't been blind all this time. He knows what's been going on with you, sees through you. He doesn't know specifics, but he knows. He knows enough to point her in the right direction, and God knows he has better insight into his brother than you ever could, sex or not. And you just know he'd be oh-so-glad to do it, well, not really, but he'd tell her. If and when she asked, he wouldn't lie to her, not like you. You and Derek are, in some ways, so very, terribly alike, so you don't blame him. You got yourself into this mess in the first place.

He stays like this, in stasis, for a moment, before shaking his head very, very slowly. "I...I don't believe that," he says, sounding uncertain. You're all too eager to pounce on this, to deny it, to make this whole mess go away. But just as you open your mouth to say something vicious, his hands latch on to your forearms. He looks determined and a little bit mad. "And you don't either."

He backs you into the bedroom before you can protest, walks you back, doesn't say a word. He shuts the door behind him almost all the way but not quite. You don't want to be here. _Traitor, traitor, traitor_ is all that's running through your head, and you have half a mind that the walls of Casey's bedroom are going to close in on you and **crush** you for daring to step foot inside. You're choking on the air in here because you can smell Casey but he's so close, and it's somehow even more **wrong** now that they're unattached. It's dark in here, all shadows and only the moonlight to guide you, and there's a bed, and you're afraid of what's going to happen next. You're tired of being afraid of him.

Of being afraid of what he does to you. Of being afraid of yourself and what you want.

You exhale raggedly, desperately trying to regain control of the conversation. "Okay, Edwin, you wanna talk about this _now_, when my sister's tears aren't even dry yet, then **fine**! If you really loved me this whole time, why didn't you tell me? And don't say that you did because every damn time you said "I love you" it was baloney because you were dating my sister! Actions speak louder than words! If you were really in love with me, then why the hell did you propose to _her_? You don't propose to someone you don't want to marry!" you roar, finally letting out all of the pent-up wrath you've been feeling for months. You want to hit him, raise your arms to do it, even, but his hands gripping your wrists now.

_Besides,_ you think, _you only said that to me twice, and how was I supposed to believe you? _He opens his mouth to say something, but you try to cut him off. Then he shakes you. "**No**, Lizzie! I get that you're pissed at me, but I need to say this!" he insists. The affront of his words makes you turn your face away from him in disgust. You're a hell of a lot more than pissed-off here. Somehow, though, his words stop you and force you to still.

He gets closer still, forces you to meet his gaze, intense and unwavering. "You asked me how I knew. You said you'd never said it, and that's not true. I knew when you came and delivered that message to me from Casey. "I love you, and there's no place I'd rather be than here with you now. I can't wait to be your bride." That is what you said, isn't it? That's when I _knew_, when I heard you say those words in a breathless whisper, and I looked into your eyes and knew you meant it. And that's when I realized I couldn't marry Casey, because even if it was her message, the whole time I was thinking of you and wanting you to be saying those words to me on your own," he says quickly, earnestly, words falling out of his mouth faster than you think he can talk.

You're trying to wrap your mind around all this, knowing that this is leaving you all too vulnerable to be taken by surprise, and, for example, _kissed_. Which wouldn't be too bad, only it would mean the end of the world as you know it. And you can't have that. You shake your head, convincingly, you hope, and say confidently, "You're talking to the wrong sister here." You don't pretend to be unaffected, but you strive to act as if what he said hasn't shaken you down to your foundations. You shake your wrists free of his grip and get in his face. "Did you **ever** even love my sister?" you bark.

It's more of a scream, though, and it's the one thing you've been dying to know for years. He doesn't act like he does, if he ever did, but if he didn't love her... then why? Why take it so far? And even if he says it was only because he couldn't have you, you know you're not gonna believe him. He says something soft that you can't really hear, but it looks like he had the guts to say yes by the way he lowers his eyes. He takes your hand softly, before you can protest. "I love you, Lizzie," he murmurs, looking at you all starry-eyed. He pauses, (and you don't know how he does it) looking a little teary, and says softly, struggling to speak, "So much. And I want to be with you."

He squeezes your hand and smiles at you hopefully, a little crookedly even, but you can't trust even this pretense at earnestness. And, when it comes down to it... Are you willing to give up your relationship with your sister for this inconstant man? The answer is, quite simply, no. That even though you've kind of wanted to be with him for the better part of years, you know that maybe, just maybe, this _isn't_ what's best for you. And maybe you don't want it half as bad as you thought you did. Maybe you don't really need him. Either way, accepting such a pitiful proposal would be insulting to both you and your sister.

You jerk your hand away from his as if burned, and you draw back, shaking your head no slowly. He still hasn't answered your question, not really, and it bothers you, why he dated her and stayed with her for all those years if you're supposed to believe that he really loved _you_ the whole time. You feel sick because you realize all those years you spent pining, whining, moping... _but __**not**__ waiting_... all of them were a waste. The man standing before you isn't the man you fell in love with. He's a pale, pathetic shadow of that man, and you want no part in this. "No," you tell him simply, not mincing words, not drawing out, just giving him the consideration he's due. You're surprised at how easy it is.

He blinks at you, disbelieving, not understanding. As if it's incomprehensible to him that you can say no. As if you have no options, and that makes you _so_ angry. You are not captive to his poor decisions, not this time. And you can feel it, can almost taste it again, the sweet, sweet liberty that you've been missing for all these years. You're almost there, almost free of this foolish trap of your own making. You straighten, swallow calmly, and say, "The timing's all wrong here. Our moment, if there ever was one, passed a very long time ago. Whatever this is, Ed, it can't last."

You don't say that you could never forgive yourself if something _did_ happen right now, in this very moment. That you could never forgive yourself if you took him up on that paltry offer. You don't say that you respect yourself more than that. You won't sell your soul for him, and you're sick and tired of letting his moods and fancies dominate your life. _No more_, you say to yourself. And you're nicer with him than you have to be, a little more diplomatic, gentler perhaps, but still very final, a little formal even.

The way he looks, you think maybe that wasn't clear enough, so you clear your throat and add, "Whatever it was you think we had, Ed, it's over. It was over before it ever began." You know the words are true, really, just as soon as you say them. It's always been that way. His face falls, but you're not sorry. Because you said what had to be said, and you just hope he understands so you can slink out quietly, while you still have some dignity left. You give him your best stonewalling look because you don't want to outright say that nothing can ever happen, and he seems to have selective hearing where you're concerned.

Then he does something that surprises you. He strides towards you so fast you don't see it coming, and he startles you by grabbing your wrists and pulling you towards him. You're limp like a rag doll because you didn't anticipate this. And then he leans his forehead against yours and his hands are on the sides of your face, caressing your cheeks, holding you there, forcing you to look at him and meet his gaze. You're overwhelmingly close, and it affects you more than you thought it would, after everything. You're so close you can feel his breaths (and that's deliberate, you're sure), and your noses almost brush.

The look in his eyes is defiant and insistent and stubborn. His forehead presses against yours unrelentingly. It's not a loving embrace. He's boxing you in. Even his fingers on your cheeks are firm. "I've loved you since we were kids, Lizzie. Since before I even knew what love was. Twelve freaking years, Lizzie, that's how long it's been. And I watched and waited for my chance, saw us drift apart, and that killed me. It's always been us. There's no one else for me _but _you, and I was kidding myself by thinking I could deny that," he tells you, serious, like this is a life-and-death matter. His eyes are wild and a little desperate, and his hands fall slowly, sliding down your cheeks, thumbs resting on the sides of your neck briefly before sliding across your shoulders, over bare, vulnerable skin, back down to your upper arms. He shakes you a little.

And then he's on his knees, reaching up to you. His eyes attempt to entreat you, soft and pleading, apologetic. He seems to get it now. He looks down, stumbles a little, because it's hard for him to admit fault. "I... I'm sorry that I let things go so far. I know it was wrong, and I've done a lot of stupid things... but you are _all_ I ever wanted and all I've ever needed. And I know the timing is horrible, but if I don't press for this now, then it's never going to happen." That's a weighty statement there, all of it.

And then he looks up at you again, determined glint in your eyes, and he reaches for your hands, clasps them in his own. You stare down at him in a mixture of shock, horror, and awe; you can't decide what to feel or how to take this, which inadvertently encourages him. "This is the only time I've got. And I don't want to go through life never having been with you," he declares, squeezing your hands, bringing them to his heart. He bends down and starts kissing your hands and looks up at you with eyes darkened with lust and some other emotion you don't dare to call love. "Lizzie, _please_, give me a chance. Give _us_ a chance to explore this. After all these years, we deserve a real shot at it," he murmurs between kisses, and he's **begging**, literally on his knees here. And it's hard for you to be quite that contrary right now.

You sigh, and you look away, a typical delaying tactic. You're softening a little, despite yourself. It's hard to be so strong and cold and aloof and angry all the time. And Edwin has always had this maddening way of just. Breaking. You. Down. Fully. And. Completely. "How am I supposed to forgive you? For what you did to my sister? For what you did to _me? _Am I supposed to forget that?" comes out of your mouth, irate and accusing. You want to shoot yourself for saying that, you really do, because you've just said you're considering it. And that damn hopeful look in his eyes flares up, and all of him perks up like a dog once it sees that bone or stick or Frisbee and is tensed and poised, ready to go after the throw and bring it back to mistress.

He turns that pleading look on you yet again and opens his mouth to ask for something more, your forgiveness, you think... when, all of a sudden, the door creaks open very slowly. You're facing the door, so you see Derek in the doorway, watch the nasty scowl spread across his face at the sight. He's glaring a hole into the back of Edwin's oblivious head, and you know he's pissed at Edwin, not you, but you're completely mortified. As if that wasn't shocking and terrifying enough, you catch a glimpse of fluffy white fabric behind him. And you go a little faint because you know what that means, especially as your sister comes into view and swoons a little at the sight of you. You tear your eyes away suddenly, unable to look at her face and feeling guilty all over again, even as you're trying to do the right thing.

You're white and hot, and you've never been closer to a panic attack in your life. Your face, you're sure it's a mix of shock and abject mortification because you want nothing more than to sink into the floor where you belong. You pull your hands away from Edwin's, crossing them over your chest, and you watch Derek wrap a steadying arm around your sister's waist out of the corner of your eye. You notice the affection in his stare and _know_ that Casey's crying again, without looking at her directly or hearing her make a single sound.

You feel positively **horrible**, guilty, like you've been caught in the act. In flagrante delicto. You don't want to face the betrayal in her face, her eyes burning with rage and jealousy. And then, you realize how much worse this looks. There's Edwin, speaking to you on his knees, holding your hands, in a soft, sweet voice. Like some kind of bizarre proposal, only you're no more engaged than you ever were. At some point, you gasp softly, noticing them there, and Edwin turns around and sees them too.

Oh, you know he probably feels almost as bad as you, and he's probably somewhat afraid Derek will, deservedly, kick his ass. But you're selfishly concerned for your own welfare and too caught up in wondering what on Earth Casey will think of you—because she _knows_ now. She has to. Because she doesn't look that surprised, and you just know that Derek told her something. You can see that she knows somewhere in the wilted lines of her body.

Derek steps forward, ever the one to make the first move, and addresses Edwin. "You have a lot of nerve to show your face around here, much less with Lizzie. Especially when you don't _live _here anymore," he replies coolly, although it comes out more as a growl. You can't see Edwin's face, but he's avoiding Derek's glare. You've never seen Derek look so furious in your life. "Can't say I approve," Derek says tersely, making his disapproval plain and heavy. It carries an underlying threat that makes Edwin scramble to his feet, out of that foolish position of vulnerability. He doesn't leave, though, like he ought, the dumb boy.

You school your face into a neutral expression, attempting to calm yourself down because it's really all you can do. Casey's even more motionless, like she's in suspended animation. Derek crosses his arms over his chest aggressively, continuing to stare down his younger brother, drawing himself up to his full intimidating height. A flash of Derek's muscles and stamina come to mind and a sudden, traitorous flash of worry for Edwin passes through you like a shot. You're afraid of what Derek's going to do. He's never been very level-headed when Casey's a part of the equation.

Edwin, you don't know what he's thinking, because he has the gall (and stupidity) to stand up to Derek. "I live here, Derek. I can do what I want," he asserts defiantly, moving towards his brother. Derek opens his mouth, disbelief written all over his face, and takes a menacing step forward. He's going to punch Edwin in the face, as he deserves, and you cannot, will not stop it. Casey, however, does. Casey places a soft hand on the inside of Derek's arm, and he softens like a chocolate bar in the sun. He draws back towards her; she pulls him back into the cocoon of her side.

Then, surprising you all, she steps forward for herself, fury screaming from her every pore. Her features are tight, hard, and offended. She shakes her head, forcing an unpleasant bitter smile that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. She's just as bad as Derek when she wants to be. "No, you can't, Edwin. You seem to have forgotten that my name and _my_ name alone is on the lease, not yours. You might pay half of the rent, but you live here only because I let you. What I say goes, and I say you're out. Sorry if you don't have anywhere to go; too bad, so sad, should've thought of that before you left me on my wedding day. I'll be changing the locks shortly, so don't you dare think of trying to live here because I will sue. Now, I'm sure you could stay with our parents or one of your little friends or... even Lizzie," she says in a cold, measured voice, giving him a fake, barely civil smile. She sneers a little, turning to look at you as she says your name.

For once, there is an absence of warmth in her expression. She just about bares her teeth at you. And it makes you want to scream because you don't want him to stay with you. Because once again no one has bothered to consult you and ask you what you really want. They've just assumed you're willing, as per usual. That awful expression on her face, the empty eyes, the cruel smile, the sneer, it makes you feel like a plastic soldier, two inches tall, flimsy, and about to get stepped on or melted or eaten.

It's technically true, though, when you take the time to think about it. Edwin _could_ very well stay with you. It isn't as if you don't have the room. But just, _no_... You don't want him to. Can't trust him, can't live with him. You don't know how to proceed or, well, how to go back, if, for that matter, you even can. You don't want him there. You just don't. The mere prospect, of him actually taking you up on it, makes you sweat cold bullets and fear desperately for your sanity.

Derek's impressed; you can tell by the pleased look, charming smile and all, he gives her. You are too. You respect Casey, and her demands are by no means unreasonable, but you fear her response to you. You're afraid she'll stop being your sister or a part of your life and you'll be even more isolated than you've ever been. You don't want to lose a sister because of your stepbrother's monumentally **stupid** decision to love you instead of her.

Then he turns to face the rest of you, looking considerably less warm. The smile turns to smirk. "Now, as _charming _as this little reunion is, you're going to have to take it somewhere else like people with class. I believe a Motel 8 would suffice," Derek continues uncivilly. His looks make it clear he has no regard or respect or even love for his brother right now, and, given what you did with him last night and your position in securing your sister's unhappiness, he can't have too much respect for you either. Not that, you suppose, you don't deserve that. You do, if only because you slept with Derek last night, but not really when it comes to Edwin. Casey gives him an open, extremely grateful look, and you feel so very out of place here.

Because it's clear Derek's been there for her, and he's helping her through this and... hell, you're the cause of your sister's misery! Casey smiles at him a little more, and you sense something blooming. And, for what it's worth, you're happy for the both of them. Casey's free, and Derek's free to finally pursue what he wants. You wish you were so free, that you had so many possibilities and options in front of you. But, once again, all you have is Edwin. In your life, every road seems to lead back to Edwin.

Maybe that means something, even you can admit that it probably does.

You've been forcing yourself to stay thusfar, but here's your opportunity for an exit, and you're not about to miss it. You make a move in the direction of the door, even though they're blocking the way, slink towards it. And your face is blood red, and your eyes are filled to the brim, almost dripping like a leaky faucet, and your lips ooze silent apologies.

Because what else can you be but all apologies? And even that's not enough!

And you don't know why, or, really, even what you're doing, but you need so very badly to make amends. So you find yourself walking over to her, towards her, and these words just start pouring out in a steady stream. "I'm **sorry**, Casey, and I know that isn't enough. An apology doesn't make it right. I should never... I had no idea that he was going to... I thought he was going to marry you. I might've been jealous, but I always wanted _you_ to be happy, the both of you... I wasn't going to do anything. I didn't... not after you got engaged. It was like it was okay because I knew you love him as much as I do and that you'd make him happy. And I'm sorry it had to turn out like this. I **never** wanted any of this to happen, Casey! I'm sorry I ever did _anything_. I wish I hadn't... But it was just that one week, and after that just phone calls and letters. I wouldn't let him do that to you," you ramble apologetically, on the verge of hysteria and choking. Painful, sincere remorse is behind every single statement. And, in that one moment, you're more honest with anyone, Casey especially, than you've been in years.

And, as much as you're worried she'll hate you forever (and it isn't like she wouldn't be _completely_ justified), you're relieved, as awful as it is, to have the heavy burden of this secret off your shoulders. That you don't have to feel guilty for holding back, that you've got nothing to hide anymore. It's only then that you realize, holding your hands out to Casey, that it's the first time you've _ever_ admitted out loud to anyone, even yourself, that you're in love with Edwin. And, what's worse, he knows now, for sure, and you can no longer deny it. You don't dare look over your shoulder back at him, don't want to see the smug triumph in his posture, the victorious smirk on his lips at having conquered you, stopped you, made you face the inevitable once and for all.

You're a wreck, and you hope Casey sees it. Casey nods slowly, frowning a little, realizing your misery. You read the pity in her eyes, see her sympathy, and you know then that you're gonna be okay. Because you two, you're the same, wearing the same shoes, same man (different levels, though). You think she looks relieved to know that you hadn't planned it or anything, that it was more an emotional affair than a physical one. Really, though, you think she's just glad to finally hear details.

Nonetheless, you want to give her space. Your restless feet are dying to leave, but not before clarifying one important point: that what they walked in on wasn't at all what it looked like. "And I'm sorry you had to find us here. I came here after the wedding because I needed to think, and Edwin found me a few hours ago. We haven't done anything. We were just arguing. I didn't want to do anything. I understand if you never want to see me again, so I'll just leave you in peace," you explain with an awkward expression and strained voice in such short sentences. You focus on Casey and don't spare Edwin a backwards glance. It's better that way. Then you make your move to leave, not expecting anything of Casey, not now, at least.

But she jolts you out of yourself as her arm reaches out, grabbing yours and stalling you, stopping you from walking past her. For a second, you frown, stiffening, more than a little mortified, worrying that Casey's about to turn this confrontation physical. You don't want to have to use what you learned in Tae Kwon Do against your sister, your own blood. You just want her to let you pass safely. But that's not what she does at all, contrary to your fears.

She just looks at you, stares, really, for a long, silent moment and then pronounces quietly, so that only you, her sister, can hear, "I understand." You can tell from the swift glance behind you that she doesn't want Edwin to think his role in all this was okay, but it feels like the weight of the planet has been lifted off your back. You are Atlas no more.

But then she turns away a little and sighs. You deflate a little, but you understand. "I just... need a little time, Liz. And I can't see either of you right now," she whispers, wincing as her voice breaks. She casts a brief, pained glance back at Edwin, and you feel a sudden surge of guilt. But your sister, ever the martyr, stubbornly blinks back the tears and reaches towards you to wipe away some escaped droplets from your own face with an immeasurable softness. The kind smile she sends you way makes you sob a little, because you don't deserve this, your sister's unconditional kindness and forgiveness.

Nonetheless, you force yourself to smile through your tears, to nod, waving goodbye to your sister, trying not to get lost in the mistiness of your own vision. And then you leave abruptly, exiting the apartment, without a single more word exchanged. Edwin stays behind, but you know it's just for the moment. He never has been able to stay away from you for long.

You have a few more things to say to Casey in private, and you don't want to get caught by Edwin for the third time all day, so you duck into a shadowy corner and lie in wait. You stay, stick around a moment longer outside the door, lurking in the halls, to talk to Casey. You watch Edwin go by, looking for you, and you're pleased that you've successfully ditched him and prolonged and continued your avoidance of that serious conversation.

You hear the screaming, and it shatters the splintered pieces left of your heart, but you don't hear the sobbing. It takes some fifteen minutes before Casey comes out, eyes red-rimmed and more than a little puffy, a little worse for the wear, holding on to Derek like a life preserver. She's clutching him, but she looks a little better, a bit brighter from the weak, sideways smile she throws at him. The two of them stagger down the hallway, walking a little taller. Derek looks pleased, either with himself or with Casey. You think his obvious happiness is a bit selfish, because it's clear there's no place he'd rather be than with her. Edwin's loss is his gain.

But it's not yours. Casey's loss is just as much a loss to you.

You can tell that she's happy, and you kinda almost don't want to ruin it, but really, all you want to do is get this one thing out so you can move on with yourself and your life and get away from this whole toxic situation. So you step out of the shadows as they approach and look as penitent as you can. You know how this must look, how you must look. You don't care because you don't care about much of anything anymore.

Funny how Edwin dumping Casey kinda causes your world to fall apart too. Maybe you're in shock. But it's like, everything you've known or thought, all of that, it's shifting and slipping like glass, sharp and deadly and out of your hands. And you don't know what's real or true anymore.

And whose fault is that? Is it Edwin's, for never saying anything and living this fake life? Or is it yours, for lying to yourself and bottling it all up inside and telling yourself so many lies, trying to restrict and restrain and control your feelings? But the dam has broken. And no little dutch boy can plug up this dike with his finger. The hole, the crack, the flood: it's all too much.

Casey freezes when she sees you, and Derek puts a protective arm out in front of her. Like you're going to attack or something. Like he doesn't effing know who you are.

It's nice to feel a flicker of anger. Nice to feel something other than this anguish and bitterness and jealousy and emptiness and loneliness you've been carrying around with you for the past five years. You hold your hands out pleadingly. "Casey, just... let me explain, okay? I... owe you that much. I don't want to hurt you... I-I just... need you to know, okay?" you tell her, practically begging, because what pride do you have left? You look between them nervously, feeling like a cornered animal. Your voice is high, too high, like a rabbit screaming for its life, in its last death throes.

Neither of them _have_ to talk to you. You know that. And you know that, yeah, maybe asking to talk to your sister is a bit selfish... but it is the _one_ thing you're asking of her. Yes, you know you're in the wrong here, and that you've always been, but you've suffered so much and all of it in her name! And you've tried to be so selfless, denied yourself so hard what you wanted and needed. Can't she give you this one little thing? These few words? This conversation the two of you need to have?

The two of them exchange looks, but Casey sees something in you, even as you see the pain on her face. "Make me understand," she says coldly, suddenly addressing you. And she lets go of Derek's arm, slowly, and steps away from him and towards you. She turns back and motions for him to give the two of you some privacy, to go on further down the hallway a little bit. His glare is still watchful, even as he turns unwillingly, eyes on yours and unflinching. Then she walks right up to you and manages to rise up, straighten her spine, and look you in the eye. You wish you could meet her gaze so easily.

She's giving you an expectant look, so the words bubble out of you, in fits and starts. Because she's your sister, and you need to tell her. You'll spare all the gory details, of course, but you need to explain, to tell her how it was for you. You suck in a breath and start, "Look, Casey, for what it's worth, I'm sorry." And so it begins. This, strangely, she looks stricken by. You press on, lacking anything better to do. This was never going to be an easy conversation. You mean what you say, and you take a step forward.

"I tried not to. I _tried_," you repeat like a prayer, like you're counting out a rosary. So goes the refrain in your head. Because trying makes it somehow seem less bad. "God knows I tried, okay?" you exclaim, hearing a sudden peal of emotion in your voice. Because Casey's eyes are dark and so like your own, and they're convicting you on the spot. You're all too quick to jump to the defensive you don't deserve. You try not to look down, try not to make your guilt so manifest, but you tip your hand anyway.

You're stammering now, incapable of even uttering a full sentence. Because suddenly it's as if nothing you say, nothing you ever say will ever, ever be _enough_. And you know it won't. What can you say that will excuse her heartbreak? Nothing you're going to say will make her feel any better. Nothing. "I... I felt so terrible afterwards... I-I wanted to tell you, but when I got there, I just _couldn't_... I didn't want to _hurt_ you. But the feelings didn't go away, and you can only fight so long before you give in..." It's not an excuse, and you both know it. But it is the truth. Your voice is ragged, your words weary. Battle fatigue syndrome, or whatever it's called... shell shock? Yeah, you've got it.

This time, before speaking, you try and smile at her a little. It almost works. "And I knew you loved him... t-t-too." All these years, and it's still hard for you to say. You smile weakly and laugh a little hysterically. "And, well, why would he pick me?" Your laughs get faster, more out of control, more hysterical. But your voice stays staccato, short sentences. "I tried to fight it. I pushed him away, did the best I could," you recite. But it's not enough and you know that, so you take a shaky breath. Your eyes are burning.

"But Casey, you really have **no** idea, okay?" the words come out faster than you can stop them and surprisingly caustic. Casey bristles at your words, all silent fury. Her lips are tight, and it looks like she wants to say something about it. You're shaking your head and talking out of your ass here. You know it's a bad idea, but you can't stop. "No idea what I went through all those years. All those things I hid away from everyone..." you repeat numbly, trailing off. All that time, you lost a piece of yourself. You're in pieces now.

You're trying to keep from crying here, and your words are sort of dreamy, like she isn't really there at all. "And time passed, and I thought everything was fine..." There's a breath here that warns of upcoming sobs, but you swallow it back. And you're blinking way too much. You're not allowed to cry. It's not supposed to be your tragedy too. You cast glances up at her now, twisting your hands, feeling pathetic and oh-so desperate. "That it was just _me_, you know, feeling the way I did, and I was okay with that. I could accept that. And then there's the wedding, and he says he's in love with someone else, and then he looks at me, and I just..." You're rambling now, breathless, hands turning over, running running running, steaming along like a runaway train gone too fast, skidding across the tracks. There's blood on the tracks.

And then you just... stop.

You look up at her, dead-on, and you're able to say with clarity, keeping it all under control, "I thought he was going to marry _you_." Her eyes shut hard, reflexively, because it pains her to hear that. That it's somehow worse to know he didn't plan this, that he surprised you too. You lick your lips and keep talking because it's all there is to do. "And I was so angry with him. That he didn't," you clarify awkwardly. And then, quite simply, there is nothing left to say.

She's got her chin down, and she's quieter than you always thought she'd be when she found out. Casey is everything but silent and nonreactive like this. Then she tilts her head up at you, hurt and challenge intermingling in her eyes. "How did it start?" she asks quietly, intently.

Really, it's a pity you don't know how to answer that question. But you have to. Because her eyes are burning like flames, and she's asking, so she **wants** to know. You shrug helplessly because, when it comes down to it, you don't really know. But ultimately, you know, deep in your bones, just like you knew the minute you laid eyes on the Venturis that they were going to change your life forever. "We met... and there's been... _something_... ever since that day," you mutter, smiling faintly. Your throat has a giant, thick lump in it. "And we got close again in high school. And one day he looked at me this way, and everything kind of just... fell into place." You don't say outright that you had a thing, but maybe she gets it.

Maybe she doesn't. You try and swallow over that lump, but it won't go down. "And I missed him when he left and, one night, I just couldn't deny it anymore. And I **hate** it, being in love with him," you tell her honestly, tears building up and bursting out of your eyes. "I tried to bury it, but it wouldn't die," you continue in a voice that wavers and trembles, dark like night. You try and blink back tears, but they tumble down anyway. "It was burning inside me for so long and so hot," you murmur, fingers brushing over where your heart is. You look up at your sister, who's reflecting the heartache you both feel. "And that night... you can only fight inevitability **so** long, Casey," you say, resigned and weary.

A sob comes out, and you press your wrist to the bridge of your nose, covering your crying eyes with your hand and arm. "And I don't know how we all got here, but I'm sorry," you tell her, peeking out for a second or two, begging for her forgiveness. You sigh and say, "I just needed to let you know that this wasn't easy for me. That I didn't want to be the Other Woman, that I didn't mean to be... But I had a moment of weakness, and I regret it all... And I've... _suffered_... a lot for this. And when he let you down, he let me down too." You admit it freely, pulling your arm away from your face to show her your sincerity. You let yourself cry a little more, but this time your big sister doesn't hug or even touch you.

You have burned for this, bruised and beaten and broken yourself for this, had your insides turned inside out, have been stoning yourself for this every day. This acid, this poison, this parasite has been eating away at you for over a decade. And it's aged you.

Casey just nods and doesn't quite believe you, doesn't fully understand the depth of your pain and your guilt, but she lies and says curtly that she "gets it" and "needs to go." She has to be getting places, seeing people more important than the sister-whore who stole her fiancé. She turns her back on you and doesn't look back. You wave goodbye pathetically, crookedly, and you burst into tears and slide down the wall right after she leaves, racked with sobs, the minute you see her disappear. The control just falls out of you like that baby did. It's like dying a little, this awful moment.

It's the first time you've been alone and honest and free in over a decade, and it's too much to bear.

And you ask yourself now, "Who are you?" Because you don't really know who you are without this horrid secret bleeding into every facet of your normal, daily life. Who are you without it? Who _are _you?

And, more importantly, what next? What now?

- Loren ;*


	6. One Marathon

Okay, so here's the epilogue, where you get to see how everything turns out. So, if you don't wanna know or prefer an open ending, stop here.

And ugh, I am still not sure about the last words, but endings are always like that for me, I guess... I could've bothered to work on it a little more, but I figured if I kept working on it, I'd just never stop. And, while I'm at it... Wow. I can't believe I'm here editing this right now, about to post it. I can't believe this is done.

There's also a flashback of after the wedding, as in what happened more or less right after Liz ran out on the wedding. Actually, though, a lot of the chapter is kind of flashback, so whatever... Also, I own nothing. And, also, for anyone from Vegas, that bit is not intended to offend. Remember Lizzie's in a not-so-nice place.

Finally, I would really appreciate reviews, so if you have a spare moment or two and something you want to say... It would be wonderful. Thank you all so much.

* * *

It's been three and a half weeks since that awful day, and every morning when you wake up, you still can't believe it. Things have worked out so much... neater... than you ever thought they would. It shouldn't be this _easy_, but it is, and that makes you feel guilty. It's like everything's just fallen into place, like this was the way it was always supposed to be. And it's kind of hard to imagine anything different.

You've been waking up next to him for a week and a half now, and you still feel like you can't trust it. It feels like a dream. Every time is the first time. It's so unreal, so beyond your comprehension that sometimes you feel like you still don't understand how you got to this point. You feel him there in the brief moments before you wake, when your eyes are closed, and there's just the slowness of your breathing, and you can imagine whatever you want. And you keep your eyes closed still, a little too long, because you're afraid he'll be gone when you wake up. That he won't be there anymore, and that you'll be alone again. So you keep your eyes closed and _wish _he stays because old habits die hard. And you still can't quite get used to seeing him there next to you, so every morning, it feels like some kind of magic holding him there.

So you kiss him just a little harder and touch him just a little more to keep him there, to know he's real.

And you remind yourself once again of the three, almost four, busy weeks since that date. So you know how you got here, 'cause your sleepy brain forgets. After everything, you pulled yourself up and went home, and you called your work up and begged to be sent somewhere, anywhere, for a very long time (because you know he'll find you... he always does, one way or another, and the only way to prevent that possibility is to remove yourself from the situation). You need time. But transfers are hard and take forever, so they tell you the best they can do is a week in Las Vegas. It's a bone-dry desert hell filled with a thousand bright and flashy material diversions, and you hate it. You're supposed to be having fun in the hotel, dancing in nightclubs, gambling at the tables, sipping cocktails, and walking down the Strip, but you're not having any fun at all. All you do is work, sleep, and watch T.V.

You meet with people about solar energy and water conservation and pollution, but you don't understand why you're here in this godawful desert wasteland. The commercialism and wastefulness of the city disgust you, and you think that its location in the middle of a desert, downwind from radiation contamination, not that there is even a stiff breeze to be had in this dry heat, and miles away from significant sources of water is no coincidence. Because this place is _poison_, glitzed up and sexed up and disguised, but the worst kind of poison nonetheless. You hate yourself just a little more here, so much that you're actually _glad_ to leave when it's time to go.

Because you've been isolated and all alone with your demons, with nothing to do but _think_, and none of the city's dubious charms managed to distract you for more than an infinitesimal moment. You're no moth attracted by bright lights, no longer a child led astray by shiny objects and candy.

You get back and find out through the grapevine that Casey went on her honeymoon... with Derek. It doesn't surprise you. You think it's good for her that she went... and, a bit selfishly, that it's good for you too, because this way you don't have to face her. Of course, fate has other plans, because Casey calls you at three in the morning the day after you get back.

You hear the phone ringing and grope for it but don't look at the caller I.D. Casey's panicked, breathy voice jolts you awake. She's pleading for something from you and trying frantically to explain at the same time, semi-hysterical and working herself up into hyperventilation. She makes approximately no sense, but you listen anyway and try to understand what she's getting at. This convinces you blood is thicker than water. In this, her time of crisis, she calls her sister. Some forty-five minutes later, you finally get to the bottom of it.

She had awakened in an unfamiliar hotel room in Monte Carlo with a raging headache. Derek had charmed her in taking a weekend trip to Monaco, and they'd both had a little too much to drink at the casino. As always with Derek, one thing led to another, and they wound up in bed together and _married_. With that same damn engagement ring Edwin had given her back on her finger like some kind of nightmare was how she put it, horrified.

You start laughing hysterically when she finally gets that out. Because of course, after all the planning and thought she put into her grandiose wedding to your stepbrother, she winds up having a drunken, spur-of-the-moment casino elopement with your other stepbrother. The no-chance-in-Hell stepbrother. It's just so... ironic... and what can you say, it _reeks_ of Derek. Trust him to take what Casey wants, pervert it, turn it completely upside-down... and still make her like it.

It's a long phone call with some interesting and highly amusing shouting, screaming, and various objects being thrown in the background. You try to advise her, but it's ultimately Derek who soothes her. And you can't really give any advice when you still don't know what to make of this, other than to give her an awkward "congratulations" and refrain from making any of the jokes dying to burst out of you.

And you hear him convincing her to give it a try, at least for a couple days, to see just how long they can stand being around each other. He's no doubt winning her over with his body and his touch, and it's interesting to listen to how Casey gives in. And you know Derek's going to convince her, end of story, because he always gets what he wants. It makes you smile a little, and you realize, wow, that this is what it's like to be sisters again. It hasn't been like this with the two of you in years, really, and it's great.

You know you have Derek to thank for it, for all of this, for the first time in years that you haven't felt guilty or thought about it, him, her, all of it. Their drama gets your mind off your own stupid problems, and you finally feel serenity and relief.

You can't go back to sleep for the rest of the morning, so you call work and call in some well-deserved time off. And then you pack and drive your Prius down to your grandmother's lakehouse where no one will find you. This time alone is going to be different. You are finally going to find yourself again, to figure out all those things you need to know. Because you can't go home again, but you can go back to this forgotten villa that holds a little slice of that summer of happy memories and enjoy the charm of peace and quiet and the vast, wild beauty of nature all around you.

And you go there and you hear the bird calls and you see the sun rise and set in all its glory and you feel the dirt under your toes and the water through your fingers, and you haven't felt so completely at peace in years. You spin around and fall in the grass and make chains of white and purple clover and watch deer and mice and rabbits and all sorts of other creatures walk, slither, pounce, and soar around you. And it makes you feel small, like you're a part of something greater than yourself again. A real citizen of the planet. You've missed this, rediscovering your passions.

You visit your grandmother at the lodge a few times and then you start to help out every now and again with the campers when you feel up to it. Your grandmother likes to brag about you and your job, which is far more corporate than you ever intended. Somehow you thought it would always be you defending the rights of the little guy in court or else out there, tramping through the wilderness or tied to a tree somewhere. You're a little disappointed it isn't like that, but you've changed a lot from that idealistic fourteen-year-old you once were.

And then, surprise surprise, you're at a bonfire, watching the kids put on a dance or some kind of play or performance that's become tradition, and he shows up, looking more than a little ragged. Your grandmother welcomes him like a returning hero, like he didn't run out on your sister at the altar less than two weeks ago. You're still angry when you first see him, so angry that, once you recover your breath, you turn away haughtily and leave without a single glance back at him.

But it doesn't matter because, come midnight, there he is standing on your porch, knocking on your glass door. And he says your grandmother told him to stay here, but you don't really believe him. You stop him before he says something stupid, like that he's been looking for you everywhere but it's like you fell off the face of the planet lately, which was, of course, your intent. So he blurts out instead that Derek and Casey are married, and you tell him rather crossly that you already knew that. No, he clarifies, they got married. For real. You nod, somewhat annoyed, and show him the postcard they sent you, with their hastily scribbled and illegible handwriting on the back and a gorgeous picture of a hamlet in the Riviera on the front.

He tells you this charming tale about how they went to some little, remote village in France and eloped, had a real marriage in a church, even though they were already married. It was a small marriage, he says, with strangers as witnesses and hardly anyone there apart from themselves and the priest. You hardly blame them. You're not even remotely surprised by this point and tell him so, though, then again, neither is he (because _that _was inevitable too). Smirking a little, you drop in the little fact that they used his rings.

He says he doesn't care and then gives you this kind of look that's not quite the same as that predatory look he usually gives you, one that's more apprehensive and less sure. You tell him that just because they got married, just because Casey's moved on, that doesn't mean it's okay. You think you make it pretty clear that you can't just pick up where you left off all those years ago, make him start all over. But you relent a little and say he can have the couch. You let him in but lock your bedroom door that first night.

Casey and Derek get it together before you do, and that really surprises you. Then again, you suppose it says something about the sheer force of your will. Even after that first awkward night, you're still reluctant to get close to them, but he forces his way into your life, until the two of you wind up spending nearly every waking moment together, and suddenly you're opening up to each other like you haven't in years.

Still, you don't tell him everything, don't even tell him a lot, really. Because some things are your secrets, and you will take them to the grave with you. You're not proud of a lot of the past few years, and you're not about to tell him, especially if it relates directly _to_ him. You don't want to let him know what loving him has done to you. You don't want to let him know you have feelings.

So, one night, you tell him, "I think I slept with Derek that night." Only you don't think, you _know_. You say it because you're getting too close to him again, and you don't want to get hurt again. And maybe you know that this will dissuade him and make him go away, or, at least, you think so. He flinches, and you take a small sliver of pleasure away from that. But he doesn't look at you like he's disgusted or anything. He doesn't say a word, doesn't ask 'cause he doesn't want to know. He's not quite as masochistic as you are, after all.

You tell him a bit more anyway, because you feel like you have to explain yourself. "I was so drunk," you say, laughing a little because you can't help it. He's not so amused. You regret that it sounds like an excuse, because it _wasn't_. You don't tell him it was your idea. You don't say you regret it, really, because that's a lie. You don't say that you actually sorta knew what you were doing. And, most of all, you don't tell him that you both did it because you thought he and Casey were doing it too... so why not?

He avoids making a snide comment about you when you're drunk and horny, and you commend him for it. Because all those times, it always happened because of him. He was the reason you were drinking in the first place. His presence, his memories, his words, his baby, his stepsister-girlfriend-fiancée, his wedding, his brother. All him.

It's not as satisfying because he knows he can't be mad at you. Because he did worse. What he is is quiet. He's not happy, but then again, he almost **married **your sister, so he can't be mad that you screwed his brother _once_. He knows that, and he can't really blame you, after what he did. It wasn't until the day of the-wedding-that-wasn't that you found out they'd never slept together. And how were you supposed to know?

It's not like that was something you ever discussed.

You think about when he found you, right after the wedding. You think about it a lot more than you let on, a lot more than you'd ever let him know. Your mind keeps coming back to it, running back to it on an endless loop.

You still have no idea how he found you after the wedding. Right after. Like he had a second sense or something. How he _always_ managed to find you, no matter where you ran to, no matter how far it was away from him. And, you think, maybe that's better than a guy who can outrun you or catch you, because he knows where you're going before you do. He might not get there first, but he knows you too damn well to let you get away. He won't let you get away, won't let you run away from _this_ anymore.

You know he's there before you look up, can feel his presence in the air, can feel his life essence, his breath, vibrating on your skin (because sleeping with a guy apparently bonds you to him for life, and you know every time one of your exes is in the room because, hell, your body _remembers_ and picks up on those vibes). But you look up anyways because you have to confirm the suspicion. You barely raise your head, though. "How'd you find me?" you ask him wearily, because you're so fast and so tired. You turn a little to glance at him, still a little breathless, elbows on your knees. You want to know how he could find you when you don't even know where you are. You feel even more lost now with him here.

He brandishes his phone, smiles a bit more than he should. "GPS." You close your eyes and lean your head against your hands. Of course. All phones nowadays have GPS, and he somehow used it to track you here. Apparently he used all those information technology classes for evil rather than good. Figures. This must be how one of the animals he tracked and hunted in Alberta and Nunavut must've felt, you think. Cornered.

But you vowed a long time ago, like many a woman before you, that you would never let a man corner you.

You groan a little but don't give him the satisfaction of looking at him again. "Creeper," you mutter, not entirely meaning it. You're too tired to mean it completely, and it comes out a little fondly. You're too bone-tired to want anything more than for him to go away, and your bone-weary body lacks the force to make him leave.

He's smiling, though, and you hate him for it. His voice is low and smooth, and it rumbles ominously like thunder when he says, "We need to talk." His hands are buried deep and firmly in his pockets, heartily, like potatoes in the ground. Those four words are words you've been avoiding, and they're never good words to hear. You already don't want to hear what he has to say, but even you have to stop running sometime. You cannot run forever.

So you nod just barely and exhale deeply. Because you are a big girl, and you are a grown-ass woman, and you can and will deal with this situation with the poise and grace that has heretofore eluded you. "I know... But not now. It's too soon," you murmur, voice heavy with exhaustion. You sound much older than your years.

But the backs of your hands and your palms are already pushing yourself off and away from the concrete. You rise slowly to your feet. The lactic acid burns your sore muscles. You haven't run like that since you were a sprinter in high school. Fastest in the county.

But his words aren't golden apples, and you are like a loaded gun just waiting to go off, a rabbit ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, wary and twitchy as hell, anxious like a druggie waiting for a fix. You swallow and a surge of adrenaline hits you. You're ready to run again. You stare him down then and see what he dares to say.

He gives you a skeptical look, but, at first, says nothing. The two of you just stare at each other, and, if you were anything like Derek and Casey, you'd be circling each other right now, sizing each other up. But you, the both of you, remain eerily still instead. And you know it's not like you and not like you around him, but you're so tired more motion is out of the question until he gives you a reason to strike like the viper you really are underneath it all.

He comes to you then, slowly, rapturous look on his face, idealism firmly in place. He clasps your hands, intertwining your fingers romantically, lovingly. You can no longer lie to yourself and say he doesn't love you. He presses them to his lips affectionately. "I'm _yours, _Lizzie," he breathes, as if that's supposed to mean something. He says it like it's a dream, like some kind of big declaration, like he's finally giving you this bit of himself, and it feels effing condescending. Like he expects you to take him as is, without so much as a fight.

And if he's thinks you're not gonna fight (like you haven't been fighting this with everything in you all along), then he really doesn't know you at all.

You jerk your hands away from his, out of his grip, and push him away lightning-quick. Because he's burned you, and once burned, twice shy, right? Then you wipe your hands off on the skirt of your dress and hide them behind your back so he won't do it again. But you still feel dirty and just a little bit queasy. You shake your head hard, so hard you practically get whiplash. "**No**, you're not," you tell him boldly. "You're not," you repeat stubbornly, like a child. You kinda still can't believe this, that it's come to this point.

Whatever he says to that, his words are empty platitudes. His words are irrelevant to you, and you won't listen. How can he justify this? How can he act like this is perfectly fine now, after his failed wedding? The marriage that you've been thinking of and angsting over for the better part of a year never happened. You shake your head jarringly because you kind of feel bitter tears forming in the corners of your eyes. "When were you ever mine?" you bark rhetorically. You hope the voice you say it in makes him feel ashamed.

He shrugs and walks towards you, hands in his pockets. "It's always been you and me, hasn't it?" he asks rhetorically, cocking his head. He edges forward a little, like it's some sort of a challenge. He raises his eyebrows, hunches his shoulders a little, and looks at you. His stare is unrelenting, and it burns your skin.

You shrug but don't move towards him. "Yeah, I guess it has," you reply noncommittally.

His face moves closer, and he turns his head a little bit farther. "Since day one. We were meant for this," he mutters like he's in a trance, staring at you intently. So intently he looks at you, like you're a star who burns bright and hot and destroys his vision. And, oh, God, he's moving closer, and you're falling back into his gravity. Like he's Jupiter or something, and you're Io or Europa or everything. "You and me, seems like we're inevitable," he drawls, and then he holds out his arms. Like he expects you to run into them or something. And when have you ever been that kind of girl?

It's such an unbelievable thing to say, so cocky you sort of want to throw up (although maybe that's just the exercise, disgust, and dehydration talking). You scoff a little, shaking your head in disbelief. You feel unsteady on your feet all of a sudden. Dizzy. He's too close. You shrug, smile or something, try and play it cool. "It seems that way, doesn't it?" you say in a dry, impassive tone, like you don't care at all.

And, you think, _it seems we've reached an impasse_.

He gestures between the two of you as you stand there, hands on hips, nonplussed. "This... us... it was meant to happen. It's how it was always supposed to be," he pronounces. His hands are still out and open like he's expecting something. Something that's not gonna come.

And it's all so fatalistic, like you've got no choice in the matter, but you're just following a current. You are no passive participant. You have control over your own actions, damn it! And you are breaking the cycle, breaking the spell, here and now and forevermore. You must sever this thread. You shake your head, more than a little helplessly, disbelieving to the last. You're groping for words to say, but nothing even remotely acceptable comes to mind. Your mind is blank like a sheet of printer paper.

And then, this time, he opens that big, stupid mouth of his and really goes and does it. He walks forward slowly, respectfully, as if he's paying tribute. And it makes you a little sick inside. His hands are folded, together, twisting like he wants to hold them out to you, like he's trying to restrain himself from grabbing you or making that sweeping gesture. His eyes are soft and a little wet, and it's all a little too much. A little too intense. His eyes are so, so dark, and he never takes them off you, never, just stares you down calmly as he walks towards you. There is a timid temerity, a secret steel there under the careful manners and appallingly calm appearance. Like a man walking to his execution. "You are my _forever_, Lizzie," he professes earnestly. His emotions shine through his voice like jewels, raw and so close to the surface. He breathes the words like a prayer, a confession, and lets them settle for a minute before they sink in the air, down, down, down.

Next thing you know, you're screaming. "I **can't** handle this!" you're shouting, flinging angry hands into the air, pacing furiously, unable to look at him. It feels like every hair, every cell in your body is standing on edge. Because he was just about to pledge to be your sister's forever, and you're _not_ her. Your heart's in your throat and pounding like you're having a panic attack, and you effing hate feeling like this. Because you feel discombobulated and out-of-control and kind of like you're dying, and you're so... hopeless it kills you inside.

You're practically dying right now because of him, and if that isn't a sign, you don't know what is. You can't stay here. You don't want to be shackled to this man for the rest of your life to wind up regretting it five minutes from now. You don't want to just dive into something like this and hate yourself for it for the rest of your life. And you know you will, if you do this now, maybe if you do this ever. You're too young for this... It's too much for you. You just can't _be_ his forever right now. Even if you wanted to be.

Just like that, you give in to your knee-jerk reaction. 'Cause that's heavy stuff, makes it hard to breathe, so you run again. Like your feet are fire burning through the pavement. You channel all that nervous energy into your run, burn it off. You're so fast you're supersonic, and your surroundings blur and shift around you. You go so fast you swear you break the sound barrier. There is only you, the flouncing of the dress behind you, the wind rushing past you, and the sound of your feet slapping against the pavement.

You finally slow to a stop in a park, overwhelmed by the green all around you. Your feet are throbbing, but somehow you're still wearing your shoes. God knows they're hardly ideal running shoes, and it's practically a miracle you've made it here without breaking an ankle or tearing a muscle. You're bone-weary, but your body isn't as exhausted as you were before. It burns a bit, but you feel safe here hidden in the heart of the park, trees all around you, protecting you, walling you in. You stumble over to some tall grass and bend over, and suddenly, without warning, you're puking in the bushes because you haven't ran like that since you were in high school and on cross-country. Then you straighten up, smooth your dress, and feel a little better, and it's kind of like nothing just happened.

You spit and spit, but you can't quite get the tangy, acrid taste out of your mouth. You walk past the pond, across the bridge. There's a white marble monument there, more of a gazebo than anything else really, and it's half-overgrown with vines and ivy, a little neglected. You go to it, and you sit on the cool, smooth steps for a minute, and just _breathe_. And a few moments later, you lean back and lie down on the dusty marble. It's cool against your back, but your dress is damp with sweat, and the fabric clings and sticks to your skin. The chill of the marble multiplies the coolness of the sweat that trickles down your shoulder blades and over your vertebrae, and it doesn't take long before you're shivering, teeth chattering. It feels kinda good.

And then, once you feel like you can breathe again, and you're chilled to the bone, so close to being numb, you rise up and hail a taxi. That's when you get the bright idea to go back to their apartment, where he wouldn't dare go, where no one would think to look at you, where no one would be. Or so you think, at any rate. And everyone knows how _that _story ends, so you put it out of your mind.

But, telling Edwin about Derek was only a stop-gap measure. It delays the process of things for a day and a half. He sulks and avoids you like the plague, which is hard when you live in the same house (as he ought to know). He doesn't talk to you, and you know that he's mad at you. Honestly, you're simultaneously relieved and annoyed—relieved that he isn't around to remind you, that he's leaving you alone, and annoyed that he's angry with you when he really has no right to be. Because, really, what was he ever to you? Certainly nothing official! Ultimately, though, you don't really care because he's leaving you alone, and that's what you wanted all along. For a moment, it _**finally**_ feels like this is something you can get over, and you start to get used to the idea.

The next night, after a busy day spent outside in the heat and the sun, running around and helping the kids, you flop onto the sofa like a dead fish, wet and heavy. Your whole body is sore; your clothes are sticking to your skin, and you're so utterly exhausted that you're afraid to blink because you think that you'll pass out the _second_ you close your eyes. And you do close your eyes for just an instant, and when you do finally allow yourself that moment of slowness, you feel an arm settling around your shoulders. And you know it's him like you know you're alive, but you sleepily shrug the arm off and elbow him in the solar plexus anyway, because it's a reflex.

He groans and moves away, and your eyes shoot open. You're too tired to be truly sorry. And he makes a face but moves towards you again. "I still want you. I still love you. And there's nothing you can say to make me stop," he murmurs, leaning in until his head is practically on your shoulder. You lick your lips because they're dry, and you think that, yes, maybe there is _one_ thing you could say to him that would make him go away. But, the problem is that it's _your_ secret and it's messy, and he'll be sad and mopey and grieving and mad at you for not telling him, mad at you for something that wasn't your fault. And you know, at best, that it would probably be temporary, and he'd try and feed you treacly apologies for not being there, and you can't take that.

You don't know why you can't say what you're thinking about now, even to yourself. You never used to have this kind of trouble with it, but suddenly it's like it's a secret to yourself. You _were_ pregnant. You didn't know. And then you weren't. And you almost died because of it... Maybe you feel that way because it hurts too much to think about it.

You know you're not going to tell him, but you lick your lips anyway. Your defenses have worn so very paper thin, leaving you vulnerable. Your tongue is looser than it should be, but you make one last attempt to stop him nonetheless. Because you have to try. You can't _not_. You look at him through bleary eyes, hard, and say, bluntly, "I can't, Edwin. Don't ask me to." You shake your head, but he doesn't listen, of course.

He pushes, and he asks questions. Why can't you? Don't ask you to what? You don't know what to say, and you try and avoid it, but he just keeps asking and asking, and eventually—you _break_. You scream, loud, until your voice is raw, and then there are tears in your eyes, but your sight has never been clearer. The words come out of you so fast, one after the other. You break down and confess, "I've been fighting this for so long, Ed, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to do anything else." And you know as you say it, that every single word is true and killing you.

What you really mean is: _I don't know how to be with you. I don't think I can take it. I'm not sure I'd come out of it alive._

Because your heart can only take so much.

You relish that he looks like a fish. "Do you have _any _idea how hard it is to fight inevitability? 'Cause all these years, it's been **killing** me," you continue, feeling the strain of it even as you speak. You talk slow and heavy like a drunk. He looks confused because he doesn't understand, doesn't really know what it's like to try swimming against the current. He tilts his head to the side a little, and it's almost adorable, but you're too bone-tired to appreciate it. Fighting inevitability, you have realized in these many long years, entails killing a piece of yourself, suppressing those very feelings that seem so natural. You've been killing yourself from the inside-out better than drugs or alcohol or self-destructive behavior ever could.

And then your shoulders are shaking, shuddering. You are bursting and overflowing. "I've been fighting this, fighting _you_ because I was afraid I'd fall apart if I didn't. I'm so _**tired**_ of fighting it, Ed," you sob. Your voice wavers and wobbles, and the world-weariness in your voice is so apparent. And you've finally reached your limit here, because you fall into his arms, and then all you can see is tears streaming down your face, blurring your vision more and more. All of the tension, all of the force, just streams out of your body. You go utterly limp in his arms. Every muscle goes entirely slack, and it's like you're _boneless_, really, the way you just melt into him.

God, you feel... relieved. So incredibly, unbelievably relieved and light, weightless, almost, that you really don't know what to do with yourself. Apparently this is what giving in feels like. It feels better than it did before, breaking like this, because you don't really feel guilty. The obstacles that were keeping you apart are now pushing you together. All your excuses are gone.

You give yourself into it, and you know there's no going back now. So as much as you want to run away from this, because it really _is _too much, you've run yourself ragged, and there's no energy left in your body, no more will to drive you forward... and you've reached that point where there's nowhere to go. Even if you ran, you'd just be running in circles... away from yourself.

And hell, it was inevitable, wasn't it? It's a lot easier, being on this side of it. Finally facing this, because this is who you are. You wouldn't have let these feelings define you for so long if it wasn't true.

So this is how it feels to finally stop running, to finally give in and just... **be**. And you've never been more terrified than you are right now, honestly, legitimately _terrified_ because you have no idea what to expect. This is uncharted ground for you, and you don't know if it'll work or if you've romanticized or de-romanticized the idea of this in your head for too many years. You have no idea what it's really going to be like, being with him, on a day-to-day basis, and you're not sure if you're gonna screw it up or not, because it's such a fragile thing now. You don't know if you can do it.

What you do know is that this is worth a try, and that it deserves the fair chance you never gave it. And you know... you've always known, really... how you feel. And he should know that.

You're trying here, and that's something, right? "Okay," you find yourself telling him, exhaling shakily. He moves back so you can get a decent look at him. And you're nodding and crying, and the tears are hot flowing down your cheeks, but it feels so _good_... "Okay," you repeat, smiling incredulously. Even as you start to say the words, you can't believe you're saying it. "I _love_ you."

And then he's crying too, and he's crushing you to his chest in an embrace, and you're closer than you've been in years. "I love you too," you say again, and you feel his lips kissing every inch of your face so lightly that you keep weeping.

And, suddenly, here you are. In his arms. And it feels like you belong. It's... _better_... than you could have ever imagined.

You tell him so many things after that, things you don't remember. Things like _I'm in this_, and _I want this_. Apologies and forgiveness and explanations. That it'll take time to get used to, that you need to learn how to trust him again and how to trust yourself, but you think he's worth it. And how you need to break down the walls you built up between the two of you. That this is a process, but you've committed to it, to working through it. All kinds of things like that.

You know you have to take things slow, one day at a time, but you finally feel like you're doing something right. And, letting him love you, letting yourself feel the same, it comes to you easily, for once in your life... and it's so much more _right_ than you ever thought it could be. There are so many more possibilities here than you ever realized.

It feels like this giant weight's been lifted off your chest, and you can call that weight by its right name... Inevitability. You've finally stopped fighting it, but you don't feel like you've lost. You feel like you've gained, like you've won something far more important, and that means more to you than any show of strength. More than fighting, more than that stupid struggle, more than the total war you've been waging on your weak self and your feelings for far too long.

And it's all a lot to get used to, but, as the days pass, it settles into you, seeps into your bones, and you just _know_ that this is going to last. Because you've finally filled that gaping wound in your heart and allowed his love to flood into all the dark and empty spaces of your being, and you're no longer just half-living and sleepwalking through life anymore. You're whole and healthy and alive, and you're not scared anymore. And that's a beautiful thing.

- Loren ;*


End file.
